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MARCH  2015 


ruEsn 

Suzann^ 

Palmer^ 


-^  Kathleen  Bartholomew 
& Kage  Baker 
Gregory  Norman  Bossert 
Kristine  Kathryn  Rusch 


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MARCH  ED15 

Vol.  39  No.  3 (Whole  Number  470) 
Next  Issue  on  Sale  March  17,  2015 

Cover  Art  by  Paul  Youll  for  “Tuesdays” 


Mo  VELLA 


Mo  VELLA 

68  Inhuman  Garbage Kristine  Kathryn  Rusch 

M O VELETTES 

88  Pareidolia  Kathleen  Bartholomew  & Kage  Baker 

46  Twelve  and  Tag Gregory  Norman  Bossert 

Short  Storied 

13  Tuesdays Suzanne  Palmer 

40  Military  Secrets Kit  Reed 


68  Holding  the  Ghosts  Gwendolyn  Clare 

Poetry 


39  Red  Shift Barbara  Duffey 

45  The  Fates  Rebel Ruth  Berman 

67  Prince/Glass Jane  Yolen 

Departivieimts 

3 Editorial:  Translation  Enigmas Sheila  Williams 

6 Reflections:  Lost  in  Translation  II  . . . Robert  Silverberg 

18  On  the  Net:  Curation,  Please!  James  Patrick  Kelly 

61  Next  Issue  

107  On  Books Paul  Di  Filippo 

118  The  SF  Conventional  Calendar  Erwin  S.  Strauss 


I have  been  intrigued  by  the  conun- 
drum of  how  to  puzzle  out  alien  lan- 
guages ever  since  reading  H.  Beam 
Piper’s  1957  short  story,  “Omnilin- 
gual,”  as  a teenager.  Piper  famously 
imagined  that  we  could  use  the  Periodi- 
cal Table  as  a common  Rosetta  Stone  to 
decode  the  language  left  behind  by  an- 
cient Martians.  The  Listeners  by  James 
Gunn,  a 1972  novel  that  is  another  fa- 
vorite from  my  teens,  was  about  how  we 
would  decipher  messages  received  via 
Arecibo  Observatory’s  radio  telescopes  in 
Puerto  Rico.  Jim’s  great  insight  was  that 
aliens  might  use  images  instead  of  words 
to  communicate  with  us  over  electromag- 
netic waves.  Ruth  Nestvold’s  2003  novel- 
la, “Looking  Through  Lace,”  speculates 
that  an  alien  culture  might  employ  a 
mechanism  like  tatting  for  their  written 
language.  In  all  these  tales,  the  key  to 
understanding  the  alien  language  is  just 
a little  bit  outside  our  comfort  zone.  All 
these  methods  derive  from  our  shared 
experiences  as  human  beings.  We  may 
not  understand  fictional  aliens’  commu- 
nication system  until  we  reach  the  end 
of  their  story,  but  once  we  get  there,  the 
answers  seem  pretty  obvious.  Much  as 
I’d  like  to  believe  that  all  humanity 
needs  to  do  is  pack  a universal  transla- 
tor when  negotiating  with  aliens.  I’m 
pretty  sure  that  won’t  really  be  the  case. 

This  summer,  I was  struck  by  just  how 
difficult  the  reahty  might  be  while  visiting 
Bletchley  Park,  the  home  of  Britain’s  Gov- 
ernment Code  and  Cypher  School  during 
the  Second  World  War.  I’ve  long  been  fas- 
cinated by  Germany’s  Enigma  Machine 
and  the  Bombe,  a machine  developed  by 
Alan  Turing  and  Gordon  Welchman 
(which  improved  on  the  pre-war  Polish 
Bomba)  to  decode  the  Enigma  messages 
as  quickly  as  possible.  According  to  the 
Bletchley  Park  Guidebook,  “the  standard 


three-rotor  Enigma  was  capable  of  being 
set  to  159,000,000,000,000,000,000  possi- 
ble combinations The  settings  were  . . . 

different  for  the  Army  Air  Force,  Navy, 
and  Secret  Service,  and  most  were 
changed  daily.”  In  Demystifying  the 
Bombe,  Demont  Turing  writes,  “A  success- 
ful run  of  a Bombe  machine  could  reduce 
these  large  numbers  to  around  a million 
possible  settings  in  about  twenty  min- 
utes.” The  Bombe  was  to  a large  extent  a 
machine  of  “drums,  which  mimic  the  ro- 
tors in  the  Enigmas’s  scrambler  unit”  and 
cables  that  connected  to  mock  Enigmas. 
Although  all  211  Bombes  were  destroyed 
after  the  war,  one  can  now  see  a recreat- 
ed version  of  the  noisy  machine  in  action 
at  Bletchley  Park. 

Yet,  despite  all  the  drums  and  the  ca- 
bles and  the  math  and  logic  that  went 
into  the  Bombe’s  creation,  the  codes  were 
ultimately  broken  by  very  human  “cribs.” 
The  machine  looked  for  standard  saluta- 
tions, common  phrases  like  “nothing  to 
report,”  or  numbers  written  in  full.  The 
cribs  made  it  possible  for  the  Bombe  to 
test  for  an  Enigma  machine’s  rotors’ 
starting  position. 

Neither  the  Bombe  nor  the  human 
codebreakers  who  applied  further  decod- 
ing techniques  to  convert  encoded  mes- 
sages into  plain  German  could  have  got- 
ten very  far  without  these  cribs.  Much 
like  Piper’s  use  of  the  Periodical  Table,  it 
was  a shared  knowledge — this  time  fa- 
miliarity with  the  Latin  alphabet,  an  un- 
derstanding of  German,  and  an  aware- 
ness of  common  word  choices — that 
made  deciphering  possible. 

On  the  other  hand,  even  without  the 
use  of  Enigma  machines  to  encode  mes- 
sages, the  lack  of  a shared  knowledge 
made  the  Navajo  code  talkers  work  un- 
breakable in  WW2’s  Pacific  theater.  Ac- 
cording to  the  New  York  Times  June  5, 


3 


2014,  obituary  for  Chester  Nez — the  last 
of  the  original  Navajo  code  talkers — the 
code  “used  two  layers  of  encryption.  The 
first  layer  was  the  Navajo  language  it- 
self, known  to  be  understood  by  only  a 
handful  of  non-Navajos,  none  of  them 
Japanese.”  The  code  talkers  also  encrypt- 
ed the  alphabet  by  substituting  Navajo 
words  for  Latin  letters  and  “created  a 
glossary  of  hundreds  of  words  used  in 
battlefield  communication.  While  some 
were  simply  Navajo  translations  of  their 
English  counterparts,  many  others  were 
poetic  circumlocutions.” 

The  Times  provided  translations  of 
some  of  these  “poetic  circumlocutions.” 
Terms  like  “ne-he-mah”  (“our  mother”) 
for  “America,”  “lo-tso”  (“whale”)  for  “bat- 
tleship,” “besh-lo”  (“iron  fish”)  for  “subma- 
rine,” and  “ca-lo”  (“shark”)  for  “destroyer” 
made  perfect  sense  to  me.  With  the  right 
information,  the  Japanese  would  have 
understood  these  word  choices,  too. 

I find  it  hard  to  believe  that  any  alien 
method  of  communication  will  be  as  easy 
to  decode  as  Navajo  or  as  accessible  as 
German  idioms.  If  the  occasion  finally 
presents  itself,  there  will  probably  be  no 
shared  experiences.  Extraterrestrials  may 
converse  in  infrared  or  in  pheromones, 
or  in  something  we  haven’t  even  thought 
of  They  might  transmit  their  language  at 
the  speed  of  hght  or  at  the  glacial  pace  of 
Roger  Zelazny’s  “Great  Slow  Kings.”  They 
may  perceive  us,  or  we  them,  as  akin  to 
mayflies  or  Sequoias. 

That  doesn’t  mean  we  should  give  up 
all  hope  of  communicating  with  the  alien. 
And  it  certainly  doesn’t  mean  that  au- 
thors should  stop  writing  SF  about  alien 
languages.  Science  fiction  illuminates  hu- 
man cultures  from  the  past,  the  present, 
and  the  future,  and  sometimes  it  does  so 
by  looking  at  all  manner  of  alien  civiliza- 
tions. Often,  when  we  explore  the  alien, 
we  get  closer  to  an  understanding  of  our- 
selves. And  if  we  understand  the  human 
race,  perhaps  we  actually  will  have  a bet- 
ter shot  at  communicating  with  ETs  when 
they  finally  show  up.  Plus,  the  entire  en- 
deavor is  fim.  After  all,  who  hasn’t  enjoyed 
that  feeling  of  frisson  once  they  come  to 
understand  Damon  Knight’s  famous  “To 
Serve  Man”  is  about  a cookbook.  O 

4 


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nbout  fifteen  years  ago  I did  a column 
headed  “Lost  in  Translation,”  in  which 
I discussed  some  of  the  problems  of 
converting  one  language  to  another, 
noting,  among  other  things,  that  if  doing 
so  is  such  a hard  task  on  one  small  plan- 
et, how  plausible  is  it  going  to  be  that  we 
will  ever  develop  handy  translating  de- 
vices that  will  let  us  communicate  with 
the  inhabitants  of  alien  worlds?  Since 
then  I’ve  had  some  further  thoughts  on 
the  subject  of  translation,  and  here  is  a se- 
quel to  that  first  column,  with  some  quo- 
tations from  the  original  text  in  case  you 
don’t  happen  to  have  the  April  1999  issue 
of  this  magazine  handy  at  the  moment. 

You  can  forget  about  that  translating 
gizmo  for  alien  languages.  The  ingenious 
writer  who  called  himself  Murray  Lein- 
ster was,  I think,  the  first  to  dream  one  of 
these  things  up,  in  his  classic  1945  story 
“First  Contact,”  and  it’s  been  a standard 
part  of  SF  furniture  ever  since.  (“‘We’ve 
hooked  up  some  machinery,’  said  Tommy, 
‘that  amounts  to  a mechanical  transla- 
tor.’” After  some  plausible-sounding  engi- 
neering talk  about  frequency  modulation 
and  short-wave  beams.  Tommy  goes  on  to 
tell  his  captain,  ‘We  agreed  on  arbitrary 
symbols  for  objects,  sir,  and  worked  out 
relationships  and  verbs  and  so  on  with 
diagrams  and  pictures.  We’ve  a couple  of 
thousand  words  that  have  mutual  mean- 
ings. We  set  up  an  analyzer  to  sort  out 
their  short-wave  groups,  which  we  feed 
into  a decoding  machine.  And  then  the 
coding  end  of  the  machine  picks  out 
recordings  to  make  the  wave  groups  we 
want  to  send  back.  When  you’re  ready  to 
talk  to  the  skipper  of  the  other  ship,  sir,  I 
think  we’re  ready”) 

But  actually  creating  such  a device 
would  be  easier  said  than  done.  It  would 
take  a very  special  kind  of  skill  to  be  able 
to  analyze  the  sounds  of  a previously 


unknown  alien  language  and  make  any 
sort  of  sense  out  of  them;  and  the  sense  it 
might  make  is  unlikely  to  be  very  sensi- 
ble sense.  Consider  Kim  Stanley  Robin- 
son’s 1990  story  “The  Translator,”  which 
pokes  lethal  fun  at  the  whole  translating- 
machine  concept:  a hapless  Earthman 
meeting  with  two  alien  species  at  once 
has  one  group  tell  him  things  like  “War- 
like viciously  now  descendant  fat  food 
flame  death”  while  the  other  comes 
through  the  translating  gadget  with 
sounds  that  can  be  translated,  the  ma- 
chine says,  as  “1.  Fish  market.  2.  Fish  har- 
vest. 3.  Sunspots  visible  from  a depth  of  10 
meters  below  the  surface  of  the  ocean  on  a 
calm  day.  4.  Traditional  festival.  5.  Astro- 
logical configuration  in  galactic  core.” 

It  happens  that  my  own  work,  like  that 
of  most  well-known  modern  science  fic- 
tion writers,  is  routinely  translated  into 
fifteen  or  twenty  foreign  languages:  in- 
variably French  and  German  and  Italian, 
often  Spanish  and  Portuguese,  and  on 
and  on,  through  Polish,  Czech,  Hungari- 
an, Bulgarian,  Russian,  Hebrew,  and  the 
various  Scandinavian  languages,  to  the 
occasional  Thai,  Korean,  and  Greek  edi- 
tion. Now,  my  style  is  reasonably  straight- 
forward and  lucid;  but  I often  wonder  how 
closely  the  translated  versions  resemble 
what  I’ve  written. 

Some  of  it  must  be  pretty  close.  I’ve  met 
many  of  my  translators,  and  they  speak 
English  easily  and  well.  They  also  are  of- 
ten willing  to  question  me  by  mail  or  even 
telephone  about  words  or  passages  in  my 
books  that  they  find  obscure. 

Even  so,  problems  inevitably  arise.  I of- 
ten wonder  whether  my  foreign  editions 
resemble  in  anything  more  than  general 
outline  the  ones  that  I wrote.  I can  hardly 
expect  the  characteristic  flavor  of  my  style 
to  be  carried  over  into  Bulgarian  or  Turk- 
ish or  Czech;  but  what  if  small  distortions 


6 


I am  a zombie. 


The  key  to  humanity's  survival 

^ is  8 years  old. 

> She  travels  with  me 


^ > This  is  our  story. 


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of  meaning  have  crept  in  progressively, 
chapter  by  chapter,  accumulating  until,  by 
the  midway  point,  the  story  itself  is  in- 
comprehensible? How  could  I tell?  I am 
able  to  make  myself  understood  fairly  well 
in  Italian  and  can  manage,  slowly,  to  cope 
with  written  French,  but  I don’t  pretend  to 
be  fluent  in  either  language,  and  Bulgari- 
an, Turkish,  and  Czech  are  beyond  me  en- 
tirely, so  I have  no  way  of  judging  the  com- 
petence of  a translation.  Sometimes,  when 
a new  edition  of  one  of  my  books  is  pub- 
lished, the  overseas  publisher  tells  me 
that  it  is  being  translated  anew,  because 
the  earlier  translation  was  badly  done — 
but  that’s  generally  the  first  knowledge  I 
have  of  that. 

Translations  pose  all  sorts  of  odd  prob- 
lems. Recently  I’ve  been  reading  a lot  of 
the  Maigret  detective  stories  by  the  great 
Belgian  novelist  Georges  Simenon.  I’ve 
never  been  much  of  a detective-story  fan, 
but  Maigret  is  an  interesting  character, 
and  Simenon’s  Maigret  books  provide  a 
charming,  moody  portrait  of  low-life 


Paris  of  the  1930s  and  1940s  that  I find 
very  appealing.  So  when  I heard  that 
Penguin  Books  was  going  to  reissue  the 
whole  lengthy  Maigret  series  in  shiny 
new  translations,  I picked  up  the  first  of 
the  new  series,  Pietr  the  Latvian,  and 
read  it  right  away. 

The  new  translation  turned  out  to  be 
too  shiny,  though.  Pietr  the  Latvian  was 
first  published  in  1930;  but  very  quickly  I 
came  upon  references  to  “body  language,” 
“money-launderer,”  and  “gourmet  meals.” 
Professional  killers  were  spoken  of  as 
“hit-men.”  A gangster  was  described  as 
the  “capo”  of  a major  crime  ring.  And  a 
sleazy  scheme  was  called  a “scam.” 

All  of  these  seemed  anachronistic  to 
me.  “Body  language,”  I was  sure,  was  a 
phrase  that  went  back  only  to  the  1960s. 
Likewise  “capo,”  a Mafia  term,  popular- 
ized by  fairly  recent  American  crime  nov- 
els and  movies.  A gourmet,  in  France,  is 
someone  who  has  fine  tastes  in  food;  in 
modern  American  English,  the  term  has 
become  an  adjective  applied  to  the  food 


Reflections:  Lost  in  Translation  II 


7 


March  2015 


itself,  as  in  “gourmet  meals.”  “Hit-man”  is 
surely  a phrase  that  came  into  our  lan- 
guage in  the  last  fifty  years  or  so.  Like- 
wise “scam”  and  “money-launderer.”  All  of 
these,  having  come  into  use  in  English 
decades  after  publication  of  the  original 
book,  jolted  me  out  of  the  illusion  that  I 
wanted  the  book  to  create.  Simenon,  of 
course,  wrote  in  French,  so  the  question 
is  one  of  appropriate  equivalence  for  the 
terms  he  used.  Since  Pietr  the  Latvian 
was  written  more  than  eighty-five  years 
ago  and  is  set  in  the  world  of  that  time,  it 
seemed  jarring  to  me  to  encounter  these 
modern  locutions  in  the  translation.  I 
checked  an  earlier  translation,  one  that 
Penguin  had  published  in  1963  as  Mai- 
gret  and  the  Enigmatic  Lett.  Indeed,  the 
“gourmet  meal”  was  simply  a “delicious” 
meal.  “Hit-men”  were  referred  to  only  as 
“killers.”  That  “capo”  was  merely  the 
“leader”  of  the  gang.  “Body  language”  was 
“gestures.”  The  gang’s  “money-launderer” 
was  merely  its  “treasurer.” 

I’m  not  sure  the  translator  can  be  fault- 
ed for  introducing  these  terms,  which  to 
me  are  anachronistic  but  to  a reader 
whose  grounding  in  our  language  doesn’t 
happen  to  go  back  seventy-some  years,  as 
mine  does,  are  perfectly  untroublesome 
usage.  The  translator’s  job  is  to  make  the 
translated  work  understood  by  the  read- 
er. Everybody  knows  what  a hit-man  is,  or 
a scam,  and  few  Americans  are  bothered 
by  the  use  of  “gourmet”  as  an  adjective.  If 
the  translator  had  slipped  references  to 
cell  phones  or  iPads  into  the  text,  or  had 
had  Maigret’s  police  lab  use  Photoshop  on 
a picture,  those  would,  of  course,  have 
been  unacceptable  transgressions.  But  in 
this  case  the  only  reader  offended  was 
one  who  was  aware  that  certain  phrases 
used  were  era-inappropriate  for  this 
book.  It’s  a delicate  issue. 

A recent  translation  of  the  Histories  of 
Herodotus  makes  that  chronicler  of  2,500 
years  ago  use  the  phrase  “power-bro- 
kers,” where  earlier  translators  spoke  of 
“men  who  held  power”  or  “leading  men.” 
The  lotus-eaters  of  North  Africa  “munch” 
the  plant,  but  Herodotus  simply  said 
they  “eat”  it.  And  so  forth.  Sometimes  a 

8 


translator  goes  too  far  out  of  the  way  to 
make  a book  comfortable  for  modern 
readers. 

On  the  other  hand,  some  translations 
can  be  incomprehensible  if  they  follow 
the  text  too  literally.  Consider  the  adjec- 
tive “cool,”  which  nowadays  is  a term  of 
approval.  “She’s  really  cool”  can  mean 
that  a woman  is  highly  attractive-but  so 
can  “She’s  really  hot,”  semantically  the 
direct  opposite  of  the  term.  What  is  the 
translator  to  do?  (Especially  when  “cool,” 
in  an  earlier  sense  of  the  word,  can  be 
taken  to  mean  “indifferent,”  “remote,” 
“chilly.”)  And  in  his  book.  Experiences  in 
Translation,  Umberto  Eco,  the  author  of 
that  fine  medieval  mystery  story  The 
Name  of  the  Rose,  cites  a passage  from 
one  of  his  books  in  which  the  characters 
go  for  a drive  and  glimpse  “boundless 
horizons  beyond  the  hedge.”  That  is  a 
reference  to  a nineteenth-century  poem 
by  Giacomo  Leopardi,  in  which  “beyond 
the  hedge”  is  a metaphorical  way  of  indi- 
cating an  infinite  vista.  Most  literate 
Italians  know  the  poem,  but  hardly  any- 
one else  does;  and  so  the  English  trans- 
lator of  the  novel  changed  the  line  to 
read,  “We  glimpsed  endless  vistas.  Like 
Darien  . . .”  The  reference  now  is  to  Keats’ 
sonnet.  On  First  Looking  into  Chap- 
man’s Homer  (“Silent,  upon  a peak  in 
Darien  . . .”)  He  has  provided,  not  a liter- 
al translation  of  Eco’s  line,  but  a literary 
equivalent;  but  he  did  so  with  Eco’s  ap- 
proval: “I  told  my  various  translators 
that  neither  the  hedge  nor  the  allusion 
to  Leopardi  was  important,  but  I insisted 
that  a literary  clue  be  kept  at  all  costs.” 
Arguments  could  be  made  on  both  sides 
here.  Eco’s  translator  manages  to  convey 
the  meaning,  what  Eco  calls  the  “deep” 
sense  of  his  story,  while  rewriting  his  ac- 
tual text,  and  Eco  was  pleased  with  the 
result.  The  Simenon  translator  main- 
tained the  “deep”  meaning  also,  but  at 
the  cost  of  offending  a reader  who  want- 
ed what  he  was  reading  to  preserve  the 
flavor  of  the  era  in  which  the  book  had 
been  written  and  in  which  it  was  set. 

And  then  we  have  the  case  of  the  trans- 
lator who  vastly  rewrites  the  original  and 

Robert  Silverberg 


Asimov's 


produces  something  that,  while  far  from 
an  accimate  rendering,  has  literary  value 
of  its  own.  The  classic  example  is  Sir 
Thomas  Urquhart’s  joyous,  exuberant 
seventeenth-century  translation  of  Fran- 
cois Rabelais’  sixteenth-century  Gargan- 
tua  and  Pantagruel — a translation  that  is 
half  again  as  long  as  the  original!  As 
though  Rabelais’  text  were  not  rich 
enough,  Urquhart  uses  it  as  the  takeoff 
point  for  a wildly  fantastic  expansion — as 
in  Chapter  25  of  Book  I,  where  a string  of 
twenty-eight  insults  becomes  forty  with 
the  addition  of  such  purely  English  epi- 
thets as  “slabberdegullion  druggels”  and 
“doddipol  joltheads.”  In  Chapter  13  of 
Book  III,  a catalog  of  nature’s  noises  dis- 
turbing the  peace  of  a reclusive  philoso- 
pher is  amplified  beyond  “the  baying  of 
dogs”  and  “the  yelping  of  wolves”  to  in- 
clude dozens  more:  “the  buzzing  of  drom- 
edaries,” “the  frantling  of  peacocks,”  “the 
snuttering  of  monkeys,”  and  on  and  on 
and  on.  Is  it  a literal  translation  of  Ra- 
belais? Certainly  not.  Is  it  faithful  to  the 
spirit  of  his  great  work?  Yes,  indeed. 
Urquhart  has  produced  something  that 
is  Rabelaisian  without  exactly  being 


Rabelais,  a work  that  has  given  immense 
pleasure  to  many  readers  for  three  and  a 
half  centuries. 

I seem  to  occupy  all  sides  of  this  dis- 
cussion on  the  art  of  translation.  The 
anachronistic  bits  of  contemporary  ter- 
minology in  the  translation  of  Simenon’s 
1930  novel  bother  me.  The  vast  expan- 
sion of  Rabelais’  text  by  Urquhart  gets 
my  enthusiastic  applause.  And  Umberto 
Eco  offers  his  approval  of  the  substitu- 
tion of  a reference  to  an  English  poem 
for  an  Italian  one  in  the  translation  of 
his  own  novel. 

The  purpose  of  a translation  is  to  make 
a text  available  to  readers  who  otherwise 
would  have  no  access  to  it — a virtuous 
goal,  one  that  has  enriched  the  lives  of  all 
literate  persons.  But  there  appears  to  be 
no  one  criterion  by  which  the  merit  of 
any  particular  translation  can  be  judged. 
Some  translations  work,  some  don’t,  and 
the  reasons  are  different  in  each  case.  I 
suppose  we  should  simply  be  grateful 
that  it  is  possible  to  convey  the  approxi- 
mate meaning  of  words  of  one  language 
in  another,  and  let  it  go  at  that.  O 


Reflections:  Lost  in  Translation 


9 


CURATION,  PLEASE! 


gatekeepers 

Quis  custodiet  ipsos  custodes? 

Sorry,  but  I couldn’t  help  myself.  I 
took  two  years  of  Latin  in  high 
school  and  it’s  been  eons  since  I’ve 
made  use  of  what  little  I remember 
of  those  drowsy  afternoons  in  Miss 
Grant’s  class.  The  quotation  above  is  usu- 
ally attributed  to  the  first  century  Ro- 
man satirist  Juvenal  <new criterion, 
com  / articles.cfm  / Lessons- from- Juvenal- 
1755>.  Literally  translated  it  means 
“Who  will  guard  the  guards  themselves?” 
Over  time  it  has  come  to  point  at  the 
problem  of  overreaching  power.  Who  will 
check  those  we  put  in  positions  of  author- 
ity? Who  keeps  an  eye  on  the  cops?  The 
President  of  the  United  States?  For  that 
matter,  who  is  looking  over  Sheila 
Williams’s  shoulder? 

Wait,  our  Sheila  Williams? 

Recall  that  Sheila  is  a member  of  the 
class  of  guardians  we  in  the  writing  biz 
like  to  call  editors  (from  the  Latin  edi- 
tus,  past  participle  of  edere,  to  put  forth, 
according  to  the  Oxford  English  Dictio- 
nary). Some  liken  editors  to  gatekeepers 
who  guard  the  entrance  to  the  Promised 
Land  of  Publication.  I prefer  to  think  of 
Sheila  as  a curator  of  the  seemingly  end- 
less flood  of  manuscripts  submitted  to 
this  magazine,  selecting  those  few  she 
deems  best  for  your  reading  pleasure.  (Cu- 
rator, the  OED  tells  us,  derives  from  the 
Latin  curator:  overseer,  guardian,  agent.). 
Now,  Sheila  will  be  the  first  to  tell  you 
that  there  are  wonderful  stories  that  just 
do  not  appeal  to  her.  Thus,  if  there  is  a 
check  on  the  power  of  any  one  editor/gate- 
keeper, it  is  that  there  are  other  editors 
with  different  tastes  editing  many  other 
publications.  All  of  them  are  eager  to  see 
great  stories  in  their  inboxes  and  to  pub- 
lish as  many  of  them  as  they  can.  And,  as 


we  learned  in  several  previous  install- 
ments, see  here  <asimovs. com  1 2013 
_03 1 onthenet.shtml>  and  here  <asimovs 
.com  1201 3_1 0-11! onthenet. shtml>  and 
here  <asimovs.com  / 2013_12 ! onthenet. 
shtml>,  what  gives  most  editors  the 
greatest  pleasure  is  finding  new  talent. 

And  yet,  there  are  those  who  once  as- 
pired to  sell  their  stories  to  one  of  the 
genre’s  many  magazines  who  have  given 
up  in  the  mistaken  belief  that  SF  pub- 
lishing is  a closed  shop.  They  believe  that 
editors  like  Sheila  or  Trevor  Quachri 
over  at  Analog  <analogsfcom>  or  Neil 
Clarke  at  Clarkesworld  <clarkesworld 
magazine.com>  or  John  Joseph  Adams  at 
Lightspeed  <lightspeedmagazine.com> 
have  their  own  coteries  of  writers,  so  break- 
ing in  is  pretty  much  impossible.  This  is 
so  not  true!  Try  checking  out  the  webpage 
of  the  John  W.  Campbell  Award  for 
Best  New  Writer  <writertopia.com  I 
awards  / Campbell>  for  proof  Neverthe- 
less, some  are  leaving  traditional  publish- 
ing to  join  the  revolution  in  self-publish- 
ing. There  are  certainly  other  reasons  to 
self-publish  besides  the  size  of  your  stack 
of  rejection  slips.  But  are  they  enough  to 
forsake  traditional  publishing  altogether? 

indie 

If  you  are  looking  for  a definitive  an- 
swer, look  elsewhere.  The  topsy-turvy 
landscape  of  contemporary  publishing 
leaves  me  dizzy  and  not  a little  nau- 
seous. But  here  are  five  things  I think  I 
know  about  the  new  self-publishing. 

1)  The  term  self-publication  is  inaccu- 
rate and  has  unfortunate  connotations. 
This  is  not  your  grandpa’s  vanity  pub- 
lishing. Many  who  follow  this  path  like 
to  call  themselves  indie  authors  or  in- 
dies. This  invites  confusion  with  the  ro- 
bust small  press  <en.wikipedia.org/ 


10 


wiki  / Small _press>  or  indie  publishing 
sector  of  the  business,  so  some  sorting 
out  needs  to  happen.  Note  that  being  an 
indie  author  does  not  necessarily  mean 
you  eschew  all  contact  with  traditional 
publishing. 

2)  Self-publishing  can  be  a powerful 
tool  for  good  in  the  right  hands.  It  gives 
indies  total  control  over  the  means  of  pro- 
duction of  their  content . . . er  . . . stories. 
Corporate  interests  still  dominate  the 
means  of  distribution,  but  for  the  time  be- 
ing, the  deal  being  offered  by  the  likes  of 
Kindle  Direct  Publishing  <kdp. 
amazon.com>  and  NOOK  Press  <nook 
press. com>  and  Kobo  Writing  Life 
<kobo.com ! writinglife>  is  very  attractive 
indeed. 

3)  With  the  barriers  to  digital  publica- 
tion falling,  responsibility  for  the  quality 
of  the  work  rests  entirely  on  the  indie 
author.  I see  this  as  a mixed  blessing.  Ei- 
ther an  indie  must  pay  for  the  services 
she  needs  to  transform  a manuscript 
into  a professional-quality  ebook,  or  she 
must  acquire  the  necessary  skills  to  per- 
form those  services  for  herself.  Either 
way,  indie  writers  must  budget  for  an  ex- 
pense of  time  or  money  or  both.  It  is  bad 
for  everyone  when  anyone  peddles  shod- 
dy goods.  This  reality  takes  some  of  the 
shine  off  the  distribution  deal.  Neverthe- 
less, the  indie  writer  is  her  own  boss  in  a 
way  that  no  traditional  writer  is. 

4)  Promotional  acumen  is  the  survival 
skill  for  all  writers.  Traditional  publish- 
ing does  a great  job  of  making  books  and 
zines  but  a mediocre  job  of  selling  them. 
Diffident  writers  who  rely  on  their  tradi- 
tional publishers  to  promote  the  work 
are  usually  disappointed.  Smart  indies 
waste  no  time  scrupling  about  whether 
to  promote  their  own  stories;  they  know 
they  have  to  get  it  done  or  the  work  will 
be  swept  away  in  the  terrifying  flood  of 
books  and  stories  that  spill  from  every 
distribution  channel. 

5)  Vanishingly  few  writers  of  any  per- 
suasion, indie  or  traditional,  earn  a living 
wage.  Just  as  for  every  mega-success  like 
George  R.R.  Martin  <georgerrmartin. 
com>  there  are  thousands  of  aspiring, 
lightly  published  and  traditionally  pub- 
lished midlist  writers  who  struggle  to 

On  the  Net:  Curation,  Please! 


make  the  rent,  the  vast  majority  of  in- 
dies will  never  see  even  a tenth  of  phe- 
nom  Hugh  Howey’s  <hughhowey.com> 
yearly  take-home.  Having  typed  that,  it’s 
clear  that  we  need  to  rethink  what  it 
means  to  be  a professional  writer  in 
light  of  the  indie  phenomenon.  For  in- 
stance, if  you  sell  three  stories  to  Asi- 
mov’s, the  Science  Fiction  Writers  of 
America  will  welcome  you  as  an  SF  pro. 
Depending  on  the  length  of  those  stories, 
you  might  have  earned  between  one 
thousand  and  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  If 
you  are  knocking  down  three  to  four  thou- 
sand dollars,  year  after  year,  selling  your 
novels  and  stories  on  Amazon,  you  are 
making  more  than  many  of  the  “profes- 
sionals” in  SFWA. 

Self-publishing  is  a tool  that  a writer 
can  use  or  not  as  a career  strategy.  Many 
traditionally  published  authors  are  using 
this  distribution  channel  to  give  their 
backlist  a new  life  across  a variety  of  dig- 
ital platforms.  I’ve  had  some  success  my- 
self as  a self-publisher.  It’s  time  to  end  the 
useless  either/or  debate  between  self  and 
traditional  publishing  and  embrace  the 
change  that  is  happening  all  around  us. 

curation 

Now  we’ve  settled  that,  let’s  consider 
the  challenge  the  new  self-publishing 
has  created  for  readers.  That  would  be 
you,  in  case  you’re  wondering.  How  do 
you,  the  literary  consumer,  find  the  best 
stories?  Entrenched  interests  in  tradi- 
tional publishing  would  say,  no  problem. 
Just  look  for  the  stories  that  real  editors 
have  culled  from  their  slush  piles — ^your 
only  guarantee  of  quality.  Meanwhile, 
some  indies  would  argue  that  stories 
that  pass  unmediated  from  author  to 
reader  are  likely  to  be  less  constrained 
by  commercial  considerations  and  thus 
more  audacious  in  style  and  content. 
These  are  both  specious  arguments,  in 
my  opinion.  Yes,  I happen  to  believe  that 
the  top  stories  in  Asimov’s  are  as  good  as 
science  fiction  gets,  but  there  are  many 
talented  writers  who  have  washed  their 
hands  of  the  traditional  marketplace.  Be- 
sides, in  all  things  artistic.  Sturgeon’s 
Law  <jessesword.com/sf/view  / 328> 
holds  true.  (Tired  of  defending  science 

1 1 


fiction  against  literary  t3rpes  who  claimed 
that  90  percent  of  genre  fiction  was  crap, 
Theodore  Sturgeon  <theodoresturgeon 
trust. com>  riposted,  “But  90  percent  of 
everything  is  crap.”) 

In  an  ideal  world,  where  we  were  all 
immortal  and  lived  in  a post-scarcity 
utopia,  there  would  he  time  enough  for  us 
to  sample  all  new  stories  personally.  But 
until  that  happy  day  arrives,  we  have  to 
rely  on  curators  to  read  and  make  recom- 
mendations for  us.  Sheila  curates  her 
submissions,  and  this  magazine  is  the  re- 
sult. But  after  our  editor  has  done  her  bit, 
other  curators  stand  ready  to  help.  Lo- 
cus <locusmag.com>  has  a staff  of  three 
astute  short  fiction  reviewers,  Gardner 
Dozois,  Rich  Horton,  and  Lois  Tilton,  who 
will  point  you  toward  some  great  reads. 
The  controversial  Dave  Truesdale  over- 
sees an  impressive  staff  at  Tangent  On- 
line <tangentonline.com>,  while  solo  re- 
viewers Mark  Watson  at  Best  SF  <bestsf. 
net>  and  Sam  Tomaino  at  SF  Revu 
<sfrevu.com>  are  reliable  guides.  Then 
there  are  the  Best  of  the  Year  anthologies, 
currently  three.  The  Year’s  Best  Sci- 
ence Fiction  <us.macmillan.com/ 
books / 9781250046215>  is  edited  by 
Gardner  Dozois,  The  Year’s  Best  Sci- 
ence Fiction  & Fantasy  <prime-books. 
com!  shop  / print-books  / the-years-best- 
science-fiction-fantasy-2014-edited-by-rich 
-horton>  is  edited  by  Rich  Horton,  and  The 
Best  Science  Fiction  and  Fantasy  of 
the  Year  <solarisbooks.com  / titles  / title 
jdetails  / the_best_science_fiction_and_ 
fantasy _of_the_y ear _volume_eight>  is 
edited  by  Jonathan  Strahan.  And  if  that’s 
not  enough  curating  for  you,  consider 
browsing  the  shortlists  of  the  three  major 
genre  awards,  the  Hugo  <thehugo 
awards. org>,  the  Nebula  <sfwa.org/ 
nebula-awards>,  and  the  Locus  <locus- 
mag.com/SFAwards  / Db  / Locus.  html> 
awards.  (And  while  we’re  talking  cura- 
tion,  a big  shout  out  to  Mark  Kelly,  who 
created  and  maintains  the  invaluable 
Science  Fiction  Awards  Database 
<sfadb.com>.  Mark  tracks  winners  and 
nominees  of  over  a hundred  different 
awards;  you’d  be  hard  pressed  to  find  a 

more  comprehensive  reading  list!) 

* * 


exit 

The  indies  in  the  audience  will  have 
noticed  by  now  that  the  list  above  is  all 
about  curation  of  traditional  publishing. 
Who  is  curating  the  self-publishers? 

And  the  answer  is  nobody  I trust — yet. 
Excuse  me  if  I am  not  swayed  by  the 
promotional  efforts  of  savvy  indie  au- 
thors. You  might  get  me  to  look  at  your 
page  with  an  insightful  blog  post  or  a 
cool  book  trailer,  but  my  reading  time  is 
way  too  limited  to  pick  up  your  story 
without  some  kind  of  recommendation. 

Customer  reviews?  According  to 
BrightLocal.com,  79%  Of  Consumers 
Trust  Online  Reviews  As  Much  As 
Personal  Recommendations  <search 
engineland.com  / 20 13-study -79-of- 
consumers-trust-online-reviews-as-much- 
as-personal-recommendations-164565>. 
I am  not  one  of  those  consumers.  Why? 
Click  The  Best  Book  Reviews  Money 
Can  Buy  <nytimes.com  / 2012 / 08 / 26 / 
business  / book-reviewers-for-hire-meet-a- 
demand-for-online-raves.  html  Ipagewanted 
=all&_r=l&>,  which  details  a literary 
entrepreneur’s  efforts  to  start  his  review- 
for-pay  business.  Experts  estimate  that 
as  many  as  one  third  of  all  customer  re- 
views may  be  fake. 

Neither  am  I impressed  by  Amazon 
Best  Sellers  Rank.  It’s  probably  just  me, 
but  most  best  sellers  on  traditional  pub- 
lishing lists  leave  me  cold. 

So  here’s  my  modest  proposal  for  self- 
publishing:  we  need  some  curation.  I 
would  love  to  see  traditional  publishing 
curators  take  an  interest,  and  I believe 
we  will  see  self-published  stories  rou- 
tinely up  for  awards  and  in  Year’s  Best 
volumes  before  too  much  longer.  But  un- 
til that  happens,  maybe  the  indie  writer 
community  should  steer  some  of  its  pro- 
motional savvy  toward  creating  its  own 
curation  infrastructure.  Yes,  I know  the 
flaws  of  curation;  after  all,  I’ve  read  Ju- 
venal! Independent  reviewers  are  not  al- 
ways dependable,  and  Best  of  Anything 
editors  make  subjective  judgments,  and 
awards  are  often  flawed.  There  is,  in  fact, 
no  perfect  way  to  guard  the  guardians. 

But  without  some  kind  of  guidance,  I 
just  don’t  know  where  to  start  reading 
my  indie  colleagues!  O 

James  Patrick  Kelly 


12 


TUESDAYS 

Suzanne  Palmer 

Back  while  she  was  in  college,  Suzanne  worked  many  odd 
jobs  to  make  ends  meet,  from  cashier  at  a fast-food  Chinese 
restaurant  to  perforated  paper  edge-remover  to  overnight 
convenience-store  clerk.  There  is  something  about  the  slow, 
grinding  hours  before  dawn  that  draws  out  the  most  interest- 
ing (and  sometimes  most  alarming)  people,  and  there  are 
endless  stories  to  be  found  if  you're  brave  or  desperate  or 
lucky  enough  to  be  out  among  them. 


3:36  A.M.:  Kent  / Paulson 


I he  police  cruiser  is  just  another  set  of  headlights  in  the  slow  stream  moving 
across  the  flat,  featureless  dark  of  an  invisible  highway,  until  it  peels  off  from  the 
shifting  pack,  growing  brighter  and  larger  as  it  leaves  I-IO  for  the  dusty  off-ramp 
that  serves  the  diner,  an  out-of-business  gas  station,  and  a vast  unmarked  waste- 
land of  jackrabbit  shit. 

Even  before  it  rolls  to  a gravel-crunching  stop  just  at  the  edge  of  the  bright  neon 
light,  the  ambivalence  of  the  two  officers  within  is  apparent.  No  flashing  lights  or 
sirens,  no  leaping  out  with  guns  drawn  to  confront  the  confrontable.  Nor  are  they  re- 
sponding to  a done-deal  tragedy,  another  faceless  out-of-stater  whose  attention  has 
been  slowly  worn  down  by  the  monotony  of  the  night  road  until  their  car  unexpect- 
edly intersects  with  one  of  the  road’s  few,  but  surprisingly  hittable,  utility  poles. 
There  are  no  bodies,  no  official  phone  calls  to  be  made.  And  at  least — or  perhaps  at 
most — here  there  is  coffee  in  plentiful  and  strong  supply. 

Officer  Kent  (young,  not  yet  jaded,  still  thinking  about  criminals  with  anticipa- 
tion) and  Officer  Paulson  (older,  less  pleased  about  overnight  shifts,  the  polyester 
content  in  the  new  uniform  shirts,  and  the  aging  of  his  knees)  get  out  of  their  cruis- 
er, one  on  each  side,  and  stand  there  looking  over  the  parking  lot,  seeking  advance 
warning  on  what  waits  inside: 

•One  tractor- trailer. 

•A  blue  pickup  that  belongs  to  one  of  the  diner’s  waitresses. 

•A  white  Saab. 

•A  silver  Honda  sedan. 

“Divide  and  conquer?”  Kent  asks. 

“Just  the  basics,  then  we’re  out.  This  should  take  one  cup  of  coffee  at  the  most,” 
Paulson  answers,  before  his  eyes  find  the  black  luxury  tour  bus  parked  off  in  the 


13 


March  2015 


shadows.  It  is  undecorated  except  for  a crucifix,  on  which  is  suspended  a pair  of 
men’s  briefs,  painted  on  the  rear.  “Make  that  two  cups.” 

“Do  you  think  we  should  take  notes?” 

Paulson  laughs,  and  it  still  has  some  warmth  in  it  where  bitterness  has  not  eroded 
it  away.  “You  sure  should,  ’cause  I’m  going  to  make  you  type  the  report  anyway.” 

3:42  A.M.:  Mason 


I es.  Officer,  I was  the  one  who  called,”  the  man  says.  “I  must  have  panicked.” 

Kent  is  sitting  across  from  the  man,  one  elbow  on  the  cracked  formica  tabletop, 
pen  poised  and  waiting  for  him  to  say  something  worthwhile.  For  his  part,  the  man 
is  thinking  he’s  not  sure  he  can,  not  at  this  hour,  not  way  out  in  this  godforsaken 
dump  in  the  middle  of  nowhere  with  nothing  for  company  but  the  intermittent 
hum  of  traffic.  They  both  know  with  fair  certainty  what  is  going  through  each  oth- 
er’s minds. 

‘You  seem  fairly  levelheaded  now,  Mr.  . . .”  Kent  checks  his  notes  so  far.  “Mr.  Ma- 
son. Can  you  explain  what  happened?” 

Mason  sighs,  putting  his  hands  over  his  face  and  rubbing  at  his  eyes,  wishing  he 
were  sound  asleep  somewhere  other  than  here.  “I  stopped  off  to  use  the  restroom  and 
get  some  coffee  and  a donut,  for  the  road,  when  that  lady  started  screaming.”  He 
points  at  the  tall  brunette  leaning  against  the  counter,  her  faux  animal-print  coat 
pulled  tight  around  her,  talking  to  Paulson. 

3:44  A.M.:  Woods 


I he  tall  brunette  is  thinking:  I can  see  you,  you  jerk  in  your  khaki  pants  and  bald 
spot  and  little  business  tie  pointing  at  me  as  you  talk  to  the  other  cop,  eyeing  me  like 
I’m  trash,  like  this  is  somehow  my  doing. 

“And  that  was  one  ‘r,’  two  ‘t’s?”  Paulson  asks. 

“Lo-RETT-Ah,”  she  says,  making  each  syllable  a stab  in  the  air  between  them. 
“Ain’t  that  many  different  ways  to  spell  it.  Loretta  Woods.  Got  it?”  Her  hands  flutter 
near  the  pockets  on  her  coat,  that  spastic  body  language  of  a smoker  momentarily 
thwarted.  Just  my  luck,  she  thinks,  I only  peeled  the  Hello  My  Name  Is  sticker  off  my 
shirt  a few  hours  ago.  If  I’d  known  I was  going  to  be  interrogated,  I could  have  kept  it 
on. 


3:44  A.M.:  Thompson 


L-illy  dries  her  hands  on  her  apron,  puts  the  newly  cleaned  pot  up  under  the  busi- 
ness end  of  the  coffee  maker,  and  having  already  set  up  the  filter  and  grounds,  starts 
it  brewing.  She  can  see  there’s  going  to  be  demand. 

3:44  A.M.:  Mason 


5 


he  was  out  in  the  parking  lot,  and  a bunch  of  us  ran  out  to  see  what  was 


wrong.” 

“And  this  was  . . . ?”  Kent  taps  his  watch. 

“Around  three,”  Mason  says.  “I  don’t  know  exactly.  Maybe  a little  before  that.” 


Suzanne  Palmer 


14 


Asimov's 


“Who  else  went  out?” 

“That  guy,”  Mason  says,  pointing  again,  this  time  at  a man  with  a beer  gut  so  large 
Kent  wondered  he  didn’t  have  to  travel  with  a wheelbarrow  to  get  himself  around. 
Stains  on  his  shirt,  dirty  jeans,  baseball  cap  with  the  name  of  some  other  diner  on  it. 
The  man  hovered  near  the  woman  who’d  screamed,  who  seemed  to  be  giving  Paul- 
son attitude. 

Truck  driver,  Kent  thinks  of  the  man,  and  the  woman:  Hooker.  He’s  still  new 
enough  that  that  snap  judgment  seems  unkind. 

2:09  A.M.:  Woods 


I he  white  Saab  pulls  into  the  diner  parking  lot.  The  place  had  been  a pinprick  of 
light  on  the  horizon,  steadily  growing  closer,  until  it  seemed  like  some  sort  of  beck- 
oning star.  Now  that  she  is  here,  she  notes  the  dust-scored  chrome,  the  24-Hours  sign 
in  cheap  neon,  the  interior  a light  blue  that  looks  like  it  dates  back  to  the  fifties  and 
has  lived  hard  every  year  on  its  way  to  the  present.  She  puts  her  face  in  her  hands 
and  cries  in  heaving,  soundless  sobs,  the  gentle  ticking  of  her  engine  filling  the  hot 
night  air,  as  she  thinks  in  slowly  tightening  circles  about  the  pervasive  disappoint- 
ment that  is  her  life. 

She  hasn’t  decided  if  she’s  going  in  yet,  or  just  leaving,  or  where  she’ll  go,  when  the 
headlights  appear  behind  her.  She  looks  up  through  bleary  eyes  to  see  a giant  black 
bus  pull  into  the  lot  and  park  beside  the  diner.  The  bus  is  nearly  as  large  as  the  little 
bright  building,  as  if  maybe  next  the  diner  itself  could  drive  off  and  leave  the  bus  in 
its  place.  The  idea  makes  her  smile.  Wiping  at  her  eyes,  she  checks  her  face  in  the 
mirror,  does  her  best  to  hide  the  remnants  of  the  breakdown  written  there,  and  de- 
cides that,  at  the  very  least,  she  should  go  into  the  diner  for  a pee. 

3:47  A.M.:  Mason 


I was  heading  for  Las  Cruces  hoping  to  find  a motel,”  Mason  says,  grateful  for 
the  officer’s  question  and  a chance  to  refocus  his  thoughts.  “My  mother’s  in  a home 
in  Pecos,  and  my  brother  called  me  to  tell  me  she’d  fallen  and  maybe  broken  a hip. 
I’m  hoping  to  get  there  sometime  later  tomorrow — today,  I guess.  My  brother’s  a good 
guy,  but  he — ” 

“Let’s  go  back  to  the  events  here,”  Kent  interrupts. 

Mason  takes  a deep  breath,  thinks  now  about  how  he  never  did  get  his  coffee.  “She 
screamed,  we  ran  out,”  he  says.  “They  were  looking  up  at  the  sky.  So  I looked  up  too, 
and  there  it  was.” 


3:45  A.M.:  Woods 


^Jhe’s  thinking,  he  still  keeps  looking  over  here.  He  saw  it  too — but  I bet  he’ll  lie.  Peo- 
ple like  him  don’t  want  anything  to  rock  their  cozy  little  world. 

Bet  he  says  it  was  a helicopter. 

“So  tell  me  again,  why  did  you  go  outside?”  Paulson  asks. 

“Went  out  for  a smoke,”  Loretta  says.  “Get  some  fresh  air.  You  know?” 

‘You  went  by  yourself?” 

She  shakes  her  head.  “No.  I was  with  Carl.” 


Tuesdays 


15 


March  2015 


3:58  A.M.:  Fredricks 


1 1 was  un-fucking-believable,”  the  truck  driver  says  for  the  fifth  time  in  a row. 
Doesn’t  matter,  he  thinks,  it  was.  “When  that  woman  started  screeching  like  it  was 
the  end  of  the  world,  I figured  that  rock-band  guy  was  grabbing  her  ass  or  some- 
thing, you  know?  But  then  I get  out  there,  and  it’s  like.  Holy  shit!  Big  fucking  thing, 
right  here.  Right  here!  Bet  you  guys  wish  you  coulda  seen  it!” 

“Can  you  describe  it,  Mr.  Fredricks?”  Paulson  asks. 

3:48  A.M.:  Mason 


‘r 

L_an  you  describe  it?”  Kent  asks. 

“Not  really.  It  was  really  big.  I mean,  big.” 

3:42  A.M.:  Greene 


Carl  doesn’t  notice  the  police  cruiser  at  first,  thinks  it  must  not  have  been  running 
its  lights  when  it  arrived.  It’s  only  as  he’s  standing  out  by  the  front  of  the  bus,  talking 
to  the  driver  about  routes  and  traffic  and  times  that  he  can  see  the  officers  clearly 
through  the  giant  plate  glass  that  makes  up  the  entire  front  facade  of  the  diner,  talk- 
ing to  customers. 

“Shit,”  he  says. 

He  goes  back  into  the  bus,  rousts  a few  groggy-eyed  roadies,  and  points  them  em- 
phatically toward  the  bus’s  small  bathroom.  AJ  is  sound  asleep,  doesn’t  wake  up  to 
fairly  insistent — almost  violent — attempts  to  disturb  him,  so  at  last  Carl  just  rolls 
him  over,  pats  him  down,  and  as  soon  as  the  roadies  are  done  he  goes  into  the  bath- 
room and  flushes  down  ever3rthing  he  found  that  he  knows  is  bad,  and  some  stuff  he 
just  plain  doesn’t  know  what  it  is. 

The  roadies  aren’t  happy  with  him,  but  he  thinks,  fuck  them.  His  job  is  to  get  them 
to  the  next  gig,  alive  and  not  in  jail,  and  everyone  knows  it. 

Carl  is  ready  by  the  time  Paulson  knocks  on  the  bus  door. 

2:38  A.M.:  Mason 


He’s  gripping  the  steering  wheel  of  his  Honda  so  hard  there’s  sweat  under  his  fin- 
gers, thinking  about  his  mother,  wishing  he  was  there  already,  not  trusting  Ed  to  do 
or  say  the  right  thing,  stay  on  top  of  things,  make  sure  Mom  had  what  she  needed. 

He  wishes  he  knew  how  bad  the  fall  was.  What  if .. . ? 

He  pounds  on  the  steering  wheel  with  one  hand,  furious  to  the  point  of  rage,  rage 
at  himself,  for  letting  that  thought  sneak  in  there.  Not:  What  if  Mother  is  dead?  but 
the  damnable  If  Mother  is  already  dead,  I won’t  have  to  sit  with  her  and  watch  her 
die. 

Oncoming  headlights  seem  off  until  he  realizes  he’s  drifted  across  the  line.  Jerk- 
ing the  wheel  back  onto  his  own  side  of  the  road,  his  heart  pounds  in  his  chest.  I 
need  a break,  he  thinks,  and  then  he  sees  up  ahead  a lone  light  not  moving,  not  a 
car. 

Please  oh  please,  he  thinks,  let  it  be  somewhere  open,  where  there  are  people. 

* * * 


16 


Suzanne  Palmer 


Asimov's 


3:59  A.M.:  Fredricks 


I here  weren’t  blinky  lights,  like  in  the  movies,”  Fredricks  says,  “but  it  was  big. 
Really  fucking  big.” 

Paulson  holds  up  his  pad  so  the  truck  driver  can  see  he’s  already  written  down 
“BIG,”  and  underlined  it  twice.  “I’ve  got  ‘big,’”  he  says.  “Can  you  describe  anything 
else  about  it,  sir?” 


12:01  A.M.:  Thompson 


Uarb  barely  mumbles  a goodbye  on  her  way  out,  Linda  already  gone  minutes 
ahead  of  her.  Lilly  is  alone  in  the  diner  now  except  for  Frank  in  the  back,  who  is  al- 
ready sound  asleep  in  his  small  office,  bicycle  in  the  doorway,  feet  up  on  his  desk,  pa- 
pers spread  across  his  wide  chest  as  if  somehow  he  can  absorb  the  news.  If  it  gets 
busy,  she  can  wake  him  up  to  help  her  cook,  but  it  won’t  get  busy,  never  does,  not  un- 
til the  distant  early  dregs  of  dawn  begin  to  seep  up  over  the  far  horizon. 

The  jukebox  winds  down  into  its  own  slumber,  its  final  song  played  and  no  one 
feeding  it  more  quarters.  Lilly  likes  the  sounds  of  the  diner  at  night,  doesn’t  miss  the 
relentless,  repetitive,  muffled  beat  of  the  jukebox.  There’s  plenty  of  pie  left.  Coffee  is 
low,  so  she  dumps  out  the  last  bit,  boiled  down  nearly  to  tar,  and  carefully  rinses  out 
the  glass  carafe.  Setting  it  upside-down  to  dry  beside  the  sink,  she  gets  a new  filter 
out,  a packet  of  pre-measured  grounds,  to  wait  on  the  counter  beside  her  until  head- 
lights appear,  if  they  do,  and  turn  toward  her.  Then  she’ll  have  the  coffee  fresh,  which 
is  the  only  way  it  should  ever  be. 

She  looks  up  at  the  clock,  and  the  free  truck-parts-company  calendar  beside  it.  It’s 
Tuesday.  Eventually  she  won’t  be  alone. 

2:25  A.M.:  Fredricks 


He’s  tired,  sick  of  the  road,  sick  of  the  junk  food  wrappers  cluttering  the  seat  be- 
side him.  He  doesn’t  realize  how  thirsty  he  is,  for  something  hot  and  bitter  and  full  of 
caffeine,  until  he  sees  the  diner  in  the  distance  up  ahead.  He’s  been  here  before:  a 
quiet  place,  good  coffee,  no  hassles. 

He  slows  his  rig,  pulls  off  when  the  ramp  finally  appears  out  of  the  night  ahead  of 
him.  At  the  diner  he  parks  it  facing  out  again,  looking  back  at  the  endless  road — 
some  sort  of  perpetual  penance  for  his  sins — and  hops  down  from  the  cab.  His  legs 
are  stiff,  aching,  but  he  walks  his  rig,  checks  it  over,  checks  the  rear  doors  to  make 
sure  they’re  secure,  throws  a chock  under  a tire  before  he  tucks  in  his  shirt  and 
heads  into  the  diner  for  a brief  respite  from  the  drone  of  the  asphalt. 

3:48  A.M.:  Mason 


1 1 made  noise,  like  ...  I don’t  know.  Like  pebbles  rolling  down  a hill,  maybe,  a 
whole  avalanche  of  pebbles,  except  musical.  It  was  hard  to  hear,  because  that 
woman  wouldn’t  stop  screaming,”  Mason  adds.  “It  wasn’t  there  for  very  long,  and 
then  it  was  just  gone,  like  in  a blink.  I know  we’re  not  that  far  off  from  White 
Sands,  so  I figure  it’s  something  of  theirs.  Better  them  than  Roswell,  right?  Was 
that  what  it  was?” 

Tuesdays  1 7 


March  2015 


“I  can’t  answer  that,  sir.” 


3:46  A.M.:  Woods 


Who’s  Carl?” 

“The  guy  from  the  bus.” 

“Oh,”  Paulson  says.  “We’ll  be  talking  to  him  too.” 

As  if  what,  he’s  gonna  say  no,  he  didn’t  go  out  for  a smoke  with  me?  The  woman 
thinks.  This  is  such  a crock  of  shit.  1 bet  if  I hadn’t  worn  this  stupid  old  coat,  no  one 
here’d  be  eyeballing  me  like  I’m  something  filthy  that  crawled  up  out  of  a hole  in  the 
ground.  I should  have  thrown  it  out  years  ago,  but  noooo,  I had  to  hang  onto  it  for  the 
goddamned  reunion.  She  just  wants  to  get  out  of  the  thing,  put  it  in  the  first  Salva- 
tion Army  bin  she  passes  so  she’ll  never  have  to  look  at  it  in  her  closet  again,  never 
be  reminded  of  how  she’s  wasted  the  last  twenty-five  years. 

She’s  passed  wanting  a smoke  a long  time  ago,  and  now  just  wants  a drink,  or  two, 
or  five.  “Are  we  done  yet?”  she  asks. 

“Can  you  describe  what  you  saw?” 

4:01  A.M.:  Fredricks 


■ t made  a sound,”  the  trucker  says.  “Like  if  you  was  humming  the  national  an- 
them or  something,  but  while  chewing  on  ice  cubes.  That  make  any  sense?” 

“Fm  sure  I have  no  opinion,  sir,”  Paulson  says,  though  that’s  not  even  slightly  true. 
“Was  there  anything  else?” 

“It  took  off  real  fast,  just  like  that.”  Fredricks  snaps  his  fingers.  “Didn’t  land. 
Wouldn’t  that  have  been  a hoot,  a bunch  of  fucking  aliens  coming  down  for  pie?  But 
they  didn’t.  I always  wanted  to  see  an  alien.  Did  I mention  how  big  the  damned  thing 
was?” 


3:50  A.M.:  Mason 


I he  Roswell  crack,  that  was  a joke.  I don’t  believe  in  that  kind  of  thing,  of  course. 
Can  I get  some  more  coffee  now?” 

4:02  A.M.:  Fredricks 


I aulson  closes  his  notebook,  takes  a deep  breath.  “I  think  we’ve  got  everything  we 
can  from  you,  Mr.  Fredricks.  I think  you  can  go.” 

“If  you  don’t  think  you  need  me. . . .” 

“Fm  sure.” 

“Well,  okay  then.  You  got  my  name  and  number,  right?  You’ll  call  if  you  have  ques- 
tions? Or  if  you  catch  ’em  or  something  or  the  Air  Force  shoots  them  down  and  they 
crash?  I want  to  know  if  they’re  gonna  crash,  because  that  thing  was  big.” 

“We’ll  do  our  best,  sir,”  Paulson  says. 

Fredricks  adjusts  his  cap,  shakes  the  officer’s  hand,  and  walks  out.  He  can  feel  the 
eyes  of  the  woman  and  the  little  nerdy  guy  who  called  911  on  his  back,  but  when  he 
glances  over  his  shoulder  the  officers  are  looking  at  each  other.  Glad  to  see  the  last  of 
me,  he  thinks.  Good.  Aliens  in  the  sky  or  not.  I’ve  got  fourteen  of  ’em  fresh  over  the 

Suzanne  Palmer 


18 


Asimov's 


border  from  Juarez  in  the  back  of  my  truck  waiting  to  get  to  Tucson,  and  last  thing  I 
need  is  to  get  held  up  so  long  the  police  get  bored  enough  to  search  my  trailer. 

He  looks  up  at  the  sky,  though,  as  he  pulls  the  chock  out  from  hehind  his  tire  and 
climhs  up  into  his  cab.  Damnedest  thing.  The  officer  he’d  talked  to  is  just  knocking 
on  the  door  of  the  tour  bus  as  he  pulls  out  of  the  gravel  parking  lot  and  picks  up 
speed  to  merge  back  onto  the  highway,  more  on  his  mind  than  he’d  expected  from  a 
simple  pit  stop  in  the  middle  of  nowhere. 

4:06  A.M.:  Greene 


“n 

Ufficer,”  The  man  says,  holding  the  bus  door  open  but  not  moving  out  of  the  way. 

“Are  you  Carl?”  Paulson  asks. 

“I  am.” 

“Are  you  the  driver?” 

“I’m  the  manager.” 

“Manager  of?” 

“The  band.”  At  his  look  of  incomprehension,  Carl  gestures  back  into  the  bus.  “Ac- 
tual Jesus  and  the  Water- Walkers,”  he  says.  “Have  you  heard  of  us?” 

Paulson  makes  a face,  realizes  he  is  making  a face,  and  does  his  best  to  stop.  “Yeah, 
I have.  What  are  you  doing  out  here?” 

“Stopped  for  a few  hours  so  our  driver  could  catch  a nap,”  Carl  says.  “We  tend  to 
pull  off  in  out  of  the  way  places  where  we  won’t  be  so  noticeable.  Fans,  you  know. 
Some  of  them  can  be  a little  crazy.” 

“My  son,”  Paulson  says,  carefully,  ‘Torought  home  a DVD  of  some  of  yoim  videos  once.” 

“It’s  just  business,  you  understand?  Controversy  sells.  It’s  not — ” 

“.  . . Carl?”  Someone  calls  groggily  from  the  back.  Paulson  sees  Carl  wince,  and 
waits  with  some  curiosity  as  the  caller  stumbles  forward  toward  the  door. 

4:07  A.M.:  Greene  / “Actual  Jesus” 


J stumbles  toward  the  door,  his  blood-red  knee-length  shirt  and  the  brocade  vest 
on  top  of  it  both  gaping  wide  open.  No  pants.  No  underwear.  He  pats  his  chest  where 
his  pocket  would  have  been  if  his  shirt  had  been  buttoned.  “Have  you  seen  . . . ?” 

He  stops  and  stares  at  the  officer,  frozen  in  place  if  you  don’t  count  swaying  and 
twitching,  his  bloodshot  eyes  with  their  teeny  tiny  pupils  wide  open. 

‘You’ll  have  to  pardon  him,”  Carl  says,  smoothly.  “It’s  been  a long  night  on  the  road 
and  he  hasn’t  had  much  sleep.” 

“Not  much  sleep,”  AJ  echoes. 

“He’s  going  back  to  bed  now,”  Carl  says. 

“Going  back  to  bed  now,”  AJ  says,  and  takes  a step  backward,  stumbling  against  a seat. 

“And  he’s  going  to  put  his  fucking  pants  back  on,”  Carl  adds,  with  emphasis. 

AJ  flashes  his  manager  the  middle  finger,  then  another  to  Paulson  for  good  luck, 
takes  another  step  backward  and  falls  over. 

“Why  don’t  I come  out  and  talk?”  Carl  says. 

“That  seems  for  the  best,  sir,”  Paulson  says. 

3:49  A.M.:  Woods 


I 


don’t  know  what  I saw,”  Loretta  says.  She’s  too  tired,  doesn’t  want  to  go  straight 


Tuesdays 


19 


March  2015 


from  the  middle-aged  nobody  in  the  zebra-stripe  coat  and  too  much  makeup  to  the 
crazy  woman  who  thinks  she  saw  a UFO.  No  one  else  was  going  to  be  dumb  enough 
to  tell  the  truth,  not  to  friends  or  family,  much  less  to  two  bored  police  officers  who 
probably  got  the  night  shift  by  being  dirty  cops. 

She  glances  over  at  the  guy  who  called  the  police  in  the  first  place,  the  officer  he 
was  talking  to  now  done  with  him  and  moved  on  to  the  trucker,  the  too-skinny  wait- 
ress with  her  cheap  bleach-job  hair  in  a fra3dng  ponytail  pouring  him  coffee,  smiling, 
as  if  she  could  possibly  care  about  anything  in  this  isolated  hellhole. 

No  one  tells  the  truth,  she  thinks. 

“It  was  probably  a helicopter,”  she  says  at  last.  “A  really  big  helicopter.  Can  I leave 
now?” 


4:09  A.M.:  Greene 


Carl  steps  out  into  the  muggy  night  air  and  lets  the  bus  door  shut  behind  him. 

“Can  you  tell  me  what  happened?”  Paulson  asks.  He’s  thinking  about  warrants, 
thinking  about  his  name  in  the  papers,  thinking  about  how  much  time  the  bus  occu- 
pants have  already  had  to  make  sure  he  wouldn’t  find  an3d.hing. 

“As  I said,  we  stopped  here  to  let  the  driver  catch  some  zees.  I went  in  to  get  coffee 
for  the  crew,  then  I went  back  into  the  diner  to  talk  to  the  woman  in  the  zebra  coat. 
At  first  I thought  she  was  . . . well,  you  know.  It’s  been  a long  tour.  But  she  wasn’t, 
and  we  had  a nice  talk,  and  we  both  wanted  a smoke,  so  we  stepped  out.  Talked  for  a 
bit,  then  there  was  this  weird  sound  and  we  both  looked  up  and  there  it  was.” 

“What,  sir?” 

“The  UFO.” 

“Ms.  Woods  expressed  the  opinion  that  it  was  a helicopter.” 

Carl  laughs  and  shakes  his  head.  “Yeah,  I can  believe  that.” 

“That  it  was  a helicopter?” 

“Oh,  no,  just  that  she’d  say  that.” 

“And  had  you  been  drinking,  prior  to  this  incident?” 

He  laughs  again.  “I  have  six  rock  musicians,  an  equal  number  of  groupies,  four 
roadies,  and  a fucking  tattooed  squirrel  monkey  up  on  that  bus,”  he  says,  “and  it’s  my 
responsibility  to  keep  them  all  together  and  able  to  put  on  a show.  I don’t  do  any- 
thing stronger  than  coffee  while  I’m  on  tour.  The  moment  this  tour’s  over,  though, 
you  can  bet  your  ass  I’m  going  to  drink  until  I’m  lying  flat  on  the  floor  and  halluci- 
nating UFOs  ever3rwhere  I look.  But  tonight,  it  was  the  real  deal.” 

“Can  you  describe  what  it  looked  like?” 

“It  was  big.” 

The  officer  sighs.  “Other  than  big.” 

“It  made  a sound,”  Carl  says. 

“Can  you  describe  it?” 

“Ever  put  a harmonica  in  a blender?” 

“No.” 

“Then  no,  I can’t  describe  it,”  he  says.  “Will  that  be  all?” 

In  the  absence  of  probable  cause,  it  is. 

4:28  A.M.:  Kent 


“P 

t-xcuse  me,  Miss?”  Kent  has  come  back  in,  after  watching  Paulson  talk  to  the 
bus  people  for  a while,  and  feeling  left  out  and  bored. 

20 


Suzanne  Palmer 


Asimov's 


Lilly  has  a damp  cloth  out  and  is  cleaning  the  table  where  Kent  had  talked  to  Ma- 
son, who  had  finally  slunk  out  of  here  not  long  after  the  trucker.  “Name’s  Lilly,”  she 
says.  “Three  Ls,  not  all  consecutive.  Busy  night  tonight.” 

“Did  you  see  anything?” 

“The  space  ship.”  She  picks  up  the  salt  shaker,  twists  the  cap  off,  takes  out  a 
wadded  up  NutraSweet  packet  that  someone  had  stuck  in  there  sometime  earlier, 
probably  on  Linda’s  shift. 

“Did  you  go  outside?” 

“Naw,  I could  see  it  from  the  window,”  she  says. 

“Can  you  describe  it  at  all?” 

“Yeah,”  she  says.  “It’s  black.  Hard  to  say  how  big  it  is  because  it’s  really  big  and  in 
the  dark  you  can’t  tell  exactly  how  far  up  it  is,  but  I’d  say  it’s  at  least  three  or  four 
hundred  feet  in  diameter.  No  lights,  although  it  does  glow  just  a little  bit,  if  that 
makes  any  sense.  I figure  it’s  probably  just  hot,  maybe  from  going  up  and  down 
through  the  atmosphere.” 

He  stands,  holding  his  pad,  and  blinks  at  her. 

“I  read,”  she  adds,  recognizing  his  expression.  “Not  much  else  to  do  out  here.  Usu- 
ally dead  at  this  time  and  I always  get  the  overnight  shifts  because  I’m  the  youngest. 
And  I don’t  complain  because  I like  them.” 

“Anjdhing  else  notable  about  it?”  Kent  manages  to  ask. 

“It  makes  sounds.  Hard  to  describe,”  she  says.  “You  have  kids?” 

“Me?  No,”  he  said. 

“Married?” 

“. . . No.” 

“Handsome  guy  like  you?  Now  that’s  a shame.” 

“I  have  a nephew.” 

“He  have  any  of  those  musical  stuffed  toys,  you  know  the  ones  that  sing?” 

‘Yeah.” 

“Ever  run  one  through  a dryer?” 

“No.” 

“Well,  try  it.  That’s  what  the  space  ship  soimds  hke.  Kind  of”  She  finishes  cleaning  the 
table  and  fetches  a broom.  He  has  to  keep  stepping  out  of  the  way  as  she  sweeps,  and  he 
gets  the  feehng  she’s  deliberately  making  him  have  to  dance  around  away  from  the  broom. 

“How  is  it,”  he  asks,  finally,  “that  you  didn’t  go  outside,  and  yet  you  can  describe  it 
better  than  everyone  else?” 

“What’s  your  name?”  she  asks. 

“Officer  Kent—” 

“No,  your  first  name.” 

Kent  doesn’t  think  he  should  answer,  but  after  a pause,  he  does.  “Matt,”  he  says. 

“Well,  Matt,”  Lilly  says.  “I  get  bored  here  all  by  myself  at  night.  If  you  want  to  come 
back  next  Tuesday  and  sit  for  a bit  and  chat.  I’d  be  happy  to  explain  all  about  it.” 

“I  don’t  think  I’m  on  duty  next  Tuesday.” 

She  smiles.  “It’s  okay,  come  on  by  an3rway.  Free  coffee.  Two  a.m.  Is  it  a date?” 

“Uh  ...  I don’t . . .”  he  starts  to  say.  She’s  cute,  but  she  sees  UFOs,  he  thinks.  “I’d  like 
to,  but  I don’t  think  it’d  he  appropriate.” 

“Shame,”  Lilly  says.  She  sweeps  some  crumbs  off  the  counter,  checks  the  coffee  pot, 
puts  on  some  more  decaf  Then  she  pours  him  a cup,  sets  it  in  front  of  him,  watches 
him  trying  to  decide  if  he  should  drink  it.  Finally  he  picks  it  up,  blows  at  the  steam, 
takes  a tentative  sip. 

“’Cause  the  UFO  comes  by  here  every  week  at  the  same  time,”  she  says  suddenly, 
and  he  spits  coffee  all  down  his  own  shirt. 

She  smiles,  and  thinks,  Tuesdays  are  looking  up.  O 

Tuesdays  21 


PAREIDOLIA 

Kathleen  Bartholomew 
& Koge  Baker 

Kathleen  Bartholomew  is  the  sister  of  the  late  Kage  Baker, 
author  of  The  Company  series  and  numerous  short  stories 
appearing  in  Asimov's.  With  Kage,  she  grew  up  in  Hollywood, 
California,  and  she  was  Kage's  chauffeuse  through  all  her 
adventures.  Kage  left  Kathleen  tons  of  notes,  story  ideas,  and 
forty  years  of  conversations  about  her  stories— as  well  as  a 
geas  to  complete  the  stories  and  keep  them  coming.  Kathleen 
has  so  far  finished  a novel.  The  Ladies  of  Nell  Cwynne:  On 
Land  and  at  Sea  (Subteranen  Press)  and  a short  story  for  a 
posthumous  collection  In  The  Company  of  Thieves  (Tachyon 
Publications).  She  also  writes  a blog,  at  doctorzeus.co,  centered 
on  Kage,  life  with  and  without  her,  and  writing.  "Pareidolia" 
revisits  a character  who  was  introduced  in  Kage  Baker's  first 
story,  "Noble  Mold"  {Asimov's,  October/November  1997). 


It’s  amazing,  the  little  details  that  get  remembered  by  mortals  in  their  histories. 
Most  of  the  time,  mortals  are  so  busy  rewriting  the  past  for  their  own  benefit  that 
it’s  a miracle  anything  gets  remembered  at  all.  Then  some  weird  little  fact  will  show 
up  millennia  later,  stubbornly  imbedded  in  the  latest  scholarly  fairytale,  and  ruin 
somebody’s  career. 

Sorting  this  kind  of  thing  out  is  my  job.  I work  for  Dr.  Zeus  Incorporated,  a secret  ca- 
bal of  scientists  and  businessmen  based  in  the  twenty-third  century.  They  invented 
time  travel,  you  see,  and  one  of  the  first  results  was  the  realization  that  literal  tons  of 
money  could  be  had  by  looting  the  past  for  lost  goodies.  The  second  result,  though,  was 
a panic  that  somehow  the  past  would  get  changed  and  they’d  reverse-engineer  them- 
selves out  of  existence.  So,  they  took  on  the  responsibility  of  seeing  that  history  more  or 
less  happened  the  way  it  should.  Or  at  least  the  way  it  was  recorded. 

In  order  to  follow  both  these  agendas,  they  developed  immortality  via  cyborged  op- 
eratives; operatives  who  would  walk  through  time  at  the  normal  rate  but  neither  age 
nor  die.  Time’s  therefore  full  of  immortal  Company  operatives  babysitting  priceless 
objects  through  the  ages.  Most  are  Preservers,  who  save  stuff:  lost  manuscripts,  ex- 
tinct animals,  legendary  inventions.  Facilitators,  like  me,  handle  those  tricky  jobs 
that  help  history  stay  on  track:  advising  kings,  founding  schools  of  philosophy,  pre- 
venting (or  assuring)  assassinations.  . . . We  all  survive,  trundling  along  like  dung 


22 


Asimov's 


beetles,  rolling  treasures  uphill  with  us  to  the  future.  Also  plastering  over  the  cracks 
of  tragic  losses  and  damn  fool  mistakes,  so  that  the  future  Company,  Dr.  Zeus,  can 
eventually  profit  from  the  restoration  of  Mozart’s  Requiem  or  the  Amir  tiger.  We 
make  sure,  when  we  have  to,  that  history — the  right  history — happens. 

Because,  I gotta  tell  you,  most  people  really  work  at  obliterating  what  came  before 
them.  Mortals  will  casually  eat  entire  species.  Emperors  want  history  to  start  with 
them,  but  even  ordinary  men  will  alter  history  to  their  own  prejudices.  There’s  al- 
ways some  busybody  with  a quill  pen  and  a grudge  ready  to  slander  or  deify  the  past. 

It’s  not  usually  one  of  us,  though.  We’re  experts  on  low  profiles.  In  fact,  there’s  a 
whole  department  of  the  Company  whose  job  it  is  to  make  sure  the  right  obscure  fac- 
toids get  forgotten  or  remembered  on  time,  so  we’re  usually  in  there  pitching  for  the 
“lost  books  of  histories”  team.  You  wouldn’t  believe  where  Mary  Queen  of  Scots’  cas- 
ket letters  ended  up;  though  if  you  think  about  the  description  of  her  secretary  Riccio 
. . . naw,  I’m  kidding  on  that  one,  just  to  show  you  how  it  can  be  done.  I wasn’t  Riccio. 

But  I was  Imhotep.  And  in  the  late  twentieth  century,  a lady  named  Betty  Rhodes 
spent  a lot  of  time  exercising  the  loose  screw  in  her  brain,  tr3dng  to  convince  people  that 
Imhotep  and  Joseph — the  Bible  guy  with  the  many-colored  coat,  you  know,  the  one  sold 
into  slavery  by  his  brothers.  T3qjical  mortals! — were  one  and  the  same  person.  All  based 
on  a tiny  reference  in  an  ancient  scroll  that  said  Imhotep’s  real  name  was  Joseph. . . . 

I can’t  remember  who  I told  that.  Maybe  my  wife;  even  immortal  Facilitators  for  Dr. 
Zeus,  Inc.  don’t  recall  ever3d,hing  they  say  to  their  wives  in  the  dark.  I’m  as  prone  to 
mumble  something  stupid  while  falling  asleep  as  the  next  guy.  I had  a list  of  titles  as 
long  as  your  arm:  Chancellor  of  the  King  of  Egypt,  Doctor,  First  In  Line  after  the  King 
of  Upper  Egypt,  Administrator  of  the  Great  Palace,  Hereditary  Nobleman,  High 
Priest  of  Heliopolis,  Builder,  Chief  Carpenter,  Head  of  the  Royal  Shipyards,  Overseer 
of  All  Stoneworks,  Chief  Sculptor.  Et  cetera.  And  what  gets  remembered?  That  one 
night  I told  the  wife.  Honey,  call  me  Joseph.  Well,  hey,  I’m  only  human.  Or  was. 

Besides,  that  was  a minor  lapse  that  never  caused  any  real  harm — a lot  of  crazier 
things  got  published  in  the  late  1900s.  No,  what  really  came  back  to  bite  my  butt  was 
the  damned  engineering  standards  I gave  to  the  Pharaoh  Djoser. 


Heliopolis  2630  B.C.E.  (approx.) 


I here  aren’t  any  uniform  standards,  O Pharaoh,”  I told  Djoser.  “Even  the  master 
masons  are  working  off  old  tables  their  grandfathers  drew  up,  or  some  invented 
‘trade  secret’  that  no  one  else  can  interpret  an3rway.  They’re  tr3dng  to  build  your  tomb 
based  on  the  length  of  Cousin  Kasekh’s  forearm!” 

“Oim  people  have  a great  and  proper  reverence  for  the  past,”  said  Djoser.  He  soimd- 
ed  amused,  even  though  he’d  just  been  complaining  about  his  newest  statue — the  one 
where  his  neck  looked  as  long  as  his  own  arm,  and  made  him  pin-headed  to  boot.  “They 
would  rather  use  the  proven  wisdom  of  their  ancestors  than  try  something  new.” 

“Well,  we  need  a better  reference  system,  somehow,  O Son  of  the  Sun.  At  least  if 
you  want  a tomb  that  looks  better  than  a termite  mound.  And  it  would  be  nice  if  your 
statues  resembled  one  another,  too.” 

I figured  the  statues  would  win  him  over.  No  one  wants  their  portraits  to  leave  the 
audience  wondering  what  species  the  subject  belonged  to — and  for  the  Pharaoh,  the 
accuracy  of  his  immortality  was  vital. 

Djoser  turned  to  look  at  me. 

“We  need  a revelation,  then,  O Vase  Builder  in  Chief,”  he  said.  “Can  you  provide  me 
one?” 


Pareidolia 


23 


March  2015 


“Not  I,  Lord;  but  the  gods  will  surely  reveal  something,”  I said  piously.  When  he 
called  me  Vase  Builder,  it  meant  he  was  getting  pissed.  “I  suggest  I sleep  at  the  con- 
struction site  tonight,  and  see  what  the  gods  tell  me  in  my  dreams.” 

Djoser  had  known  me  long  enough  by  now  to  tell  that  my  “divine  revelations” 
could  be  tailored  to  the  needs  of  the  throne  with  amazing  specificity.  Whether  he 
thought  I was  a gifted  prophet  or  just  a gifted  scam  artist,  I never  knew — it  made  no 
difference.  Maybe  he  really  thought  the  gods  were  just  hanging  around  waiting  to 
pour  solutions  to  his  problems  into  my  head. 

“See  it  done,  then.”  He  deliberated  a minute  and  added,  “And  inquire  of  the  gods  if 
they  can  reveal  some  rules  about  art,  as  well.  Especially  concerning  proportions.  The 
heads  keep  falling  off.” 

I assured  Pharaoh  I would  do  so,  and  went  off  rubbing  my  hands  together  in  glee. 
This  was  why  I was  there  and  then,  working  through  an  entire  mortal  lifetime  to  en- 
sure the  proper  solutions  to  Classical  Egypt’s  building  problems. 

This  was  one  of  the  bigger  revelations  I was  assigned  to  impart  to  the  Third  Dy- 
nasty— the  engineering  standards  that  would  let  them  build  the  pyramids,  begin- 
ning with  the  Step  P3T'amid  for  Djoser  himself 

I’d  even  be  able  to  add  that  labyrinth  he’d  been  nagging  me  for. 

So  I hurried  home  and  played  with  the  kids  while  my  wife  packed  me  a dinner 
basket  and  a bedroll.  A night  picnic  and  a good  sleep  under  the  stars,  and  the 
statutes  of  government-sanctioned  art  could  be  firmly  planted.  And  they’d  keep 
Egyptian  art  and  engineering  on  track  for  the  next  three  thousand  years.  With  a 
brief  hiatus  during  Akhenaten’s  reign,  of  course.  The  sun  worshipper  went  off  on 
that  short-lived  experiment  in  monotheism  and  naturalistic  art  . . . but  I’d  be  long 
gone  by  then,  and  my  revealed  truths  of  engineering  would  survive  even  him. 

See,  humans  have  a natural  tendency  toward  pareidolia.  That’s  seeing  images — 
especially  faces — in  random  patterns.  It’s  why  little  kids  draw  houses  with  two  win- 
dows on  either  side  of  a door,  like  a face.  It’s  why  babies  will  smile  at  a mask  with 
seven  or  eight  eyes  but  not  at  a mask  with  none:  their  brains  are  hardwired  to  ex- 
pect Mommy  to  have  at  least  two.  It’s  all  a recognition  pattern  that  runs  around  in 
the  fusiform  g3Tus  and  the  parahippocampal  gyrus.  Conversely,  you  can  make  the 
brain  see  faces,  and  in  fact  interact  with  them,  if  you  stimulate  those  same  gjud.  Ex- 
amination of  Egyptian  art  had  showed  the  Company  that,  after  a certain  point,  it 
was  all  designed  to  do  just  that.  It’s  why  the  ancients  reported  that  the  gods  came 
down  off  the  walls  and  walked  and  talked  in  the  old  temples.  But  the  Company 
couldn’t  find  a place  or  time  where  the  mathematical  formulae  were  discovered,  and 
they  wanted  to  make  sure  the  job  got  done — because  a lot  of  the  goodies  they  want- 
ed to  collect  in  the  future  depended  on  it. 

It’s  one  of  their  biggest  corporate  paranoias — the  horrible  suspicion  that  they’re 
now  responsible  for  making  sure  history  actually  happens. . . . 

The  Company  was  going  to  great  lengths  to  ensure  that.  And  I did  the  job  spectacu- 
larly well,  if  I say  so  myself  Heads  stopped  falling  off  royal  statues  and  royal  artists, 
and  succeeding  pyramids  went  up  and  stayed  up.  History  was  once  more  assured. 

I packed  my  ceremonial  kit  myself — braziers,  incense,  pen  and  ink  and  blank  pa- 
pyrus— ^with  which  to  record  the  proclamations  of  the  gods  on  waking.  At  the  bottom 
of  it  all  was  the  “revelation”  all  prepared,  complete  with  spurious  divine  seals  and 
cartouches  that  would  delight  Djoser.  That  scroll  would  include  the  first  rules  and 
formulae  for  industrial  government  art.  It  had  everything  from  reminders  on  how  to 
calculate  angles,  to  the  perfect  balance  between  the  width  of  someone’s  eyebrows  and 
the  thickness  of  their  lower  lip. 

With  this  in  hand,  Egyptian  engineers  would  amaze  the  world.  Egyptian  priests 
would  amaze  their  congregations.  Egyptian  artists  would  produce  generations  of 

Kathleen  Bartholomew  & Kage  Baker 


24 


Asimov's 


statues  as  alike  as  stamped  cookies.  And  Egyptian  gods  would  see  into  men’s  souls 
and  walk  beside  them  in  the  temple  compounds.  It  had  all  been  worked  out  to  per- 
fection by  social  psychiatrists  and  ad  men  in  the  Company’s  employ. 

And  someone  due  to  be  born  in  the  twenty-third  century  would  be  able  to  indulge 
their  hobby  of  Pharaonic  art,  and  give  Dr.  Zeus  the  throne  of  the  Twin  Lands  as  pay- 
ment for  this  carefully  faked  but  genuinely  ancient  scroll. 

Man,  I love  it  when  the  threads  all  twist  together! 

By  the  time  I left  Imhotep’s  life  behind,  the  “new  art”  and  the  engineering  were  a 
rip-roaring  success.  I stuck  around  long  enough  to  make  sure  the  Egyptians  made 
the  leap  successfully  from  the  Step  P3T'amid — ^which  was  basically  just  four  or  five 
mastaba  tombs  stacked  on  top  of  one  another — to  the  more  classic  model — which 
was  still  a stack  of  mastabas,  only  with  the  gaps  filled  in. 

The  Pharaohs’  statues  were  looking  even  more  alike  than  the  inbred  Royal  House. 
I went  off  to  nudge  the  Sumerians  into  their  assimilation  by  the  Akkadians. 

For  the  next  twenty-five  hundred  years  or  so  I wandered  the  Fertile  Crescent. 
Mortals  were  inventing  all  sorts  of  weird  governments  and  religions;  my  job  was  to 
make  sure  the  right  lunatics  got  into  power.  Most  of  it  was  pretty  good — urban  living 
was  getting  easier  and  easier  to  come  by,  and  I’m  a city  boy  at  heart.  Never  mind 
that  I was  born  in  a cave  in  the  Pyrenees;  when  I met  indoor  plumbing  and  wine 
shops,  it  was  love  at  first  sight. 

Work  as  a Facilitator  keeps  you  moving:  things  like  getting  grants  and  licenses  for 
the  Preservers  posing  as  Hyperborean  tourists  who  wanted  to  excavate  Uhaid  sites. 
(No  easy  trick  when  you’re  dealing  with  clay  tablets  and  cuneiform.)  Advising  the 
odd  king,  turning  the  glass  blowers  and  goldsmiths  on  to  the  latest  one-thousand- 
year-old  technology  imported  from  Memphis  ...  I think  I personally  spread  cotter 
pins  and  faience  through  the  Fertile  Crescent,  you  know? 

I worked  my  way  north  and  east  around  the  Mediterranean,  did  several  stints  in 
Rome  as  a soldier  or  a priest.  Being  in  the  Legions  wasn’t  as  bad  as  you’d  think.  Be- 
ing a priest  of  Cybele  was  much  worse — just  because  you  can  grow  ’em  back  doesn’t 
make  dispensing  with  your  testicles  any  more  fun.  But  politics  and  religion  are 
mainstays  for  Facilitators.  I like  to  think  it’s  because  we  have  more  of  a sense  of  hu- 
mor than  the  harder-wired  Preservers. 

The  Company  kept  me  busy,  slotting  me  into  the  new  Mediterranean  societies  just 
as  Christianity  began  finding  its  feet  among  the  civilized  peoples  of  the  world.  Then 
when  Rome  began  to  fail,  I started  back  down  around  the  Golden  Horn,  headed  for 
the  next  hotbed  of  Western  Civilization:  Constantinople. 


Constantinople,  535  C.E. 


^Jixth-century  Constantinople  was  a pretty  nice  place  to  work. 

As  a Facilitator  Class  Operative  for  Dr.  Zeus  Inc.,  I’ve  spent  more  time  than  I’d  like 
on  the  front  lines  of  power.  That’s  a dangerous  place.  But  I’ve  got  broader  ethics  pa- 
rameters than  a basic  Preserver,  plus  some  native,  ah,  flexibility,  I guess  you’d  call 
it — basically.  I’m  a sneaky  guy.  And  I need  that  edge,  because  on  the  edge  is  where  I 
do  my  best  work. 

Christianity  was  having  its  growing  pains,  of  course.  I’d  been  working  in  the  Gre- 
co-Roman mummy  trade  in  Egypt,  socking  away  the  last  of  the  embalmed  gentry  for 
Dr.  Zeus  as  the  Coptic  Christians  took  more  and  more  control  of  the  mortuary 


Pareidolia 


25 


March  2015 


business — I was  glad  to  get  out  of  there  before  Islam  arose  in  the  next  century  and 
started  eliminating  the  smaller  Christian  sects. 

An3rway,  nowhere  did  Christian  sects  cause  so  much  uproar  as  in  Constantinople! 
God’s  own  gangsters.  Crazy,  too — the  place  was  pretty  much  an  open-air  asylum  for 
schisms,  heresies,  and  the  ever-popular  wild-eyed  prophet  trade.  Mix  in  the  effect  of 
being  the  Eastern  Roman  Empire,  a melting  pot  of  anybody  who  even  had  a melting 
point,  and — ^well,  the  Golden  Horn  was  a cornucopia  for  the  Company.  We  had  a huge 
staff  there,  operatives  called  in  from  all  over  the  Middle  East  for  the  action. 

The  place  was  paradise  for  Company  Preservers,  of  course,  as  Emperor  Justinian 
ramped  up  his  building  and  civic  improvement  programs.  There  were  so  many  new 
buildings,  that  old  gossip  Procopius  wrote  an  entire  book  called  Buildings  of  Justinian, 
complaining  about  the  high  costs  of  government  projects.  There  were  about  a dozen 
Preservers  for  every  building,  too,  because  Constantinople  was  one  big  grab  bag. 

I was  running  a freight  service  and  a safe  house,  providing  a base  and  guidance 
for  my  share  of  the  projects  going  on.  As  the  Preservers  got  their  happy  little  ob- 
sessed hands  around  whatever  Byzantine  specialties  turned  them  on,  I shipped  ’em 
out  to  wherever  the  Company  had  picked  to  hide  said  specialty  until  needed.  I put  it 
all  in  the  safest  keeping  going,  safe  until  that  golden  moment  in  Future  Time  when 
whoever  had  agreed  to  pay  a fortune  for  it  got  around  to  being  born.  And  since  I 
packed  along  as  much  olive  oil  and  cotton  and  saffron  and  honey  and  hashish  as  the 
mules  could  carry,  the  whole  operation  paid  for  itself  The  Doctor  really  likes  it  when 
a Facilitator  can  make  his  base  profitable  on  a local  level. 

I didn’t  even  have  to  pick  the  destinations  for  what  I shipped  out,  it  all  came  pre- 
addressed. I had  a score  of  good  mules,  a team  of  fake  Levantine  muleteers  (all  Se- 
curity techs,  enjoying  running  around  being  unshaven  tough  guys  in  the  big  city) 
and  a positive  budget  balance  with  the  Company  accountants. 

Now,  that’s  Facilitating. 

Things  began  to  get  hinky  in  532,  during  the  Nika  Riots — it  was  always  the  racing 
clubs,  the  Blues  or  the  Greens,  behind  crap  like  that;  the  sports  cartels  in  the  city 
were  even  worse  than  in  Rome.  Justinian  had  almost  caved  to  their  demands,  or  at 
least  whatever  their  demands  would  have  been.  Those  guys  weren’t  too  coherent  at 
the  best  of  times,  and  they  were  really  only  rioting  because  someone  had  tossed  some 
twenty  nummi  coins  into  a crowd  at  the  Hippodrome  and  yelled,  “Bugger  the  Greens 
and  Justinian  too!” 

Half  the  city  burned,  along  with  the  basilica  of  Hagia  Sophia,  before  Justinian  sent 
in  the  Imperial  guards  and  some  hastily  deputized  Blues  and  took  the  rioters  down. 
But  then  he  started  rebuilding  the  city,  so  everyone  was  reasonably  happy  again.  It 
ended  up  as  good  press  for  him  and  his  empress,  Theodora.  Especially  when  they  an- 
nounced they  were  rebuilding  Hagia  Sophia.  For  the  third  time. 

Justinian  indulged  himself  by  hiring  a couple  of  guys  whose  expertise  was  not  in 
architecture  or  art — but  mathematics.  They  drew  up  plans  for  a building  made  of 
stone,  tile,  glass  and  metal — advertised  as  noncombustible,  which  was  a big  selling 
point.  Isidore  of  Miletus  and  Anthemius  of  Tralles  were  the  men  of  the  hour,  and  the 
whole  city  was  fascinated  by  the  beautiful  skeleton  rising  from  the  ashes  of  the  old 
Sophia.  When  Anthemius  died  in  534,  Isidore  didn’t  even  slow  down.  And  when  the 
stonemasons  and  sculptors  and  painters  and  mosaic-makers  and  fancy  carpenters 
started  in — well,  it  looked  like  a Golden  Age  was  beginning  on  the  Golden  Horn. 

But  the  Nika  Riots  were  a reminder  for  us  Operatives.  Change  was  coming,  bad 
change.  Our  Preservers  were  happy  enough,  scurr3dng  around  grabbing  crumbs  like 
art-obsessed  ants,  but  they  knew  what  was  on  the  way.  We  all  knew.  The  Plague  of 
Justinian  was  due  in  just  ten  years.  The  Black  Death  would  start  its  long  reign  over 
Europe. 


26 


Kathleen  Bartholomew  & Kage  Baker 


Asimov's 


Still — ^you  know  how  it  is.  Everyone  very  carefully  didn’t  dwell  on  it.  I mean,  we 
can’t  die,  and  we  knew  the  plague  was  on  the  way,  and  we  knew  we  had  time  to 
leave.  In  the  long  run,  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  most  of  us. 

In  the  meantime,  I shipped  out  a lot  of  mules’  worth  of  models  and  rough  sketches 
and  real  Byzantine  masterpieces  replaced  with  durafoam  copies  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  by  anxious  Preservers.  Even  with  our  pilfering,  Hagia  Sophia  was  turning  out 
to  be  one  of  the  loveliest  buildings  in  the  world. 

Then  Phil  the  Sicilian  turned  up  with  a new  assignment. 

I should  have  known  that  the  fairy-godmother  phase  couldn’t  last — sooner  or  later, 
someone  was  bound  to  notice  that  old  Joseph  hadn’t  had  a crisis  in  a couple  of  decades, 
and  put  my  name  back  on  the  fecal  roster. 

As  a matter  of  fact,  I was  supervising  the  loading  of  segments  of  red  granite  pil- 
lars from  Ba’albek,  imported  from  Lebanon  under  Justinian’s  orders  for  the  church, 
when  Phillip  came  to  see  me.  Justinian  had  had  them  taken  apart  and  shipped  over 
in  pieces  like  big  checkers,  the  color  of  wet  liver — ^you  can  see  them  in  Hagia  Sophia  to 
this  day,  and  you’ll  notice  the  pieces  don’t  quite  match.  That’s  because  we  liberated 
half  a dozen  for  an  Ephesian  church  up  in  2275.  It  struck  me  as  pretty  funny  at  the 
time. 

Serves  me  right  for  laughing  at  religion.  It’s  hard  as  hell  to  load  a cylindrical  object 
on  to  a curved  mule  back,  and  the  mules  don’t  help  any.  We  were  having  some  seri- 
ous problems  with  geometry  when  one  of  my  fake  muleteers  signaled  from  my  com- 
pound gate. 

Hey,  Joseph — broadcast  Martin — got  a Facilitator  here,  name’s  Phillip,  got  a mes- 
sage from  Up  Forward  for  you.  (Image  of  a small  brown  man  with  an  eye  patch.) 

Phillip?  Phillip  ofGela?  Send  him  on  back,  Martin — I answered.  I was  surprised, 
but  only  a little — Phil  was  a Facilitator  who  usually  requested  courier  duties,  and  he 
was  based  in  Sicily;  as  close  to  a local  postman  as  we’d  get  here  in  the  heart  of 
Byzantium.  And  as  I was  uneasily  considering  this,  I caught  the  two  of  them  on  my 
automatic  scan,  coming  in  from  the  front  courtyard. 

Phillip  was  a little  guy  (Hell,  we  were  all  little  guys.  Except  the  Security  mule- 
teers.) pretty  much  all  one  shade  of  caramel.  The  only  thing  of  note  about  him  was 
his  heterochromia,  which  had  originally  gotten  him  recruited  and  rescued  from  the 
sacrificial  pits  of  Ba’al.  One  eye  was  brown,  the  other  was  blue.  In  those  days  he  usu- 
ally wore  an  eye  patch  over  the  blue  eye,  to  avoid  alarming  the  mortals;  though  when 
he  needed  to  play  sorcerer  (as  we  all  did,  from  time  to  time)  just  taking  off  the  patch 
was  enough  to  get  him  all  the  street  cred  he  needed.  Today  he  was  wearing  it,  plain 
soft  leather  in  one  more  shade  of  brown. 

“Good  to  see  you,  Joseph,”  he  said,  dropping  his  satchel  on  the  ground.  “The  Bless- 
ing of  the  One  on  you  and  yours.” 

“May  the  Three  reward  you,”  I said  automatically.  That  was  Constantinople  for 
you;  the  One  or  the  Three  and  usually  both.  And  usually  a fight  over  it,  too.  “What 
have  they  sent  you  on  this  time?” 

“Special  orders  for  you,  O favored  son  of  small-time  commerce,”  he  said,  and 
reached  out — we  clasped  arms.  Roman-style,  and  he  set  his  free  hand  on  my  brow 
and  downloaded  what  he  was  carr3dng. 

I hate  doing  that.  “Ow,  damn  it,”  I said.  “How  do  I rate?  Why  not  just  send  me  my 
orders  via  credenza?” 

The  usual  rush  of  details  and  images  was  already  forcing  its  way  out  of  my  ter- 
tiary consciousness  into  my  forebrain,  with  that  wonderful  feeling  it  always  has  of 
battery  acid-laced  bicarbonate  of  soda . . . and  the  first  thing  that  cleared,  I noted  un- 
easily, was  a big  throbbing  red  PRIORITY  SECURITY  sign. 


Pareidolia 


27 


March  2015 


“Not  for  the  likes  of  me  to  know,”  said  Phil  cheerfully.  That  confirmed  the  sinking 
feeling  in  my  stomach.  “I’m  not  supposed  to  know  what  you’re  doing,  so  don’t  tell  me. 
I’m  glad  to  be  rid  of  it,  though — that  message  got  loaded  in  at  Malta  Base,  and  it’s 
been  making  my  corpus  callosum  itch  all  the  way  across  the  Med.” 

“My  heart  breaks  for  your  damned  corpus  callosum,”  I snarled  at  him.  I kicked  his 
satchel.  “So  there’s  nothing  important  in  there  for  me,  huh?” 

“Well,  I may  have  a few  bars  of  something  dark  and  sweet.  I came  prepared  as  a 
bearer  of  bad  news.  Also,  I need  a bed  for  the  night,  and  a ride  in  the  direction  of  the 
Zagros  range  as  soon  as  you  can  manage  it,”  he  said. 

My  head  was  beginning  to  fizz  now.  So  I sent  him  off  with  Martin  to  the  guest 
quarters  in  the  main  house.  Phil  was  making  himself  popular  with  all  and  sundry 
by  handing  out  chocolate  bars  as  he  went.  He  wasn’t  a bad  guy,  just  glad  it  wasn’t  his 
turn  in  the  barrel.  I’d  have  felt  the  same  way. 

“What  now.  Boss?”  asked  Ivar.  He  was  sitting  on  the  barrel  of  granite  we  couldn’t 
get  on  the  mule. 

I looked  at  it.  It  looked  like  a chunk  of  blood  sausage,  and  maybe  the  bubbles  in  my 
brain  kicked  something  into  high  gear. 

“We  need  a hot  dog  bun,”  I said. 

“Huh?” 

“Build  a big  basket  cradle,  tie  that  to  the  mule,  and  put  the  damned  pillar  in  the 
basket,”  I said. 

I left  the  boys  getting  one  of  the  resident  Preservers  to  show  them  how  to  make  a 
giant  basket,  and  went  off  to  let  my  new  orders  eat  their  way  into  my  brain. 

The  best  way  to  do  that,  in  my  experience,  is  to  toss  back  a half-pint  of  chocolate 
milk  and  lie  down  for  a while.  This  doesn’t  work  well  with  ass’s,  goat’s,  ewe’s,  or 
mare’s  milk — and  believe  me,  I’ve  tried  ’em  all — so  I’d  taken  to  making  it  with  cold 
water,  Aztec  style,  until  dairy  industry  caught  up  with  the  Mideast. 

I had  to  get  the  cacao  from  Company  bases,  of  course.  But  one  of  the  big  advan- 
tages of  Constantinople  was  the  Spice  Market — you  could  get  things  to  flavor  your 
pease  porridge  that  Africa  and  Europe  only  used  to  color  paint.  I liked  spikenard, 
personally;  reminds  me  of  the  way  root  beer  will  taste.  An3rway,  I knocked  some  back 
and  lay  down  to  get  the  briefing. 

A young  man’s  face  cleared  out  of  the  general  data  cloud — sulky,  wall-eyed,  bad 
mustache — and  the  info  beside  it  identified  him  as  Nikephoros,  an  ikon  painter.  He 
lived  here  in  Constantinople,  working  free-lance  for  Isidore  of  Melitus  on  Hagia 
Sophia.  The  Company  wanted  everything  he’d  produced  on  the  assignment — any  and 
all  ikons  he’d  painted  for  use  in  the  church.  So,  why  was  this  Priority,  and  Secret?  I’d 
shipped  out  literally  tons  of  Byzantine  art  for  the  aesthetes  and  museums  of  the  fu- 
ture; it  was  practically  why  I was  here. 

I went  down  to  the  next  level.  It  wasn’t  for  their  artistic  value,  apparently.  The  re- 
port said  that,  according  to  reports  from  the  work  site,  this  guy’s  ikons  were  making 
people  go  crazy.  I was  to  find  out  how  and  why,  secure  his  whole  oeuvre,  and  then 
make  sure  he  couldn’t  paint  any  more. 

That  made  my  stomach  hurt  again.  I never  like  assignments  that  imply  wet  work, 
and  they  can’t  be  handed  off  to  the  Preservers.  Their  clean,  specialized  little  brains 
would  boil  over  . . . but,  hey,  the  guy  was  a starving  artist,  right?  That  meant  he  was  for 
sale. 

I thought  over  what  the  local  gossip  mill  was  saying  about  Isidore’s  artists.  There 
were  dozens  of  ikon  makers  working  for  Isidore,  and  the  ones  that  worked  in  paint 
were  the  least  well-paid.  The  really  expensive  stuff  was  being  done  in  gold-backed  mo- 
saic glass.  Even  the  sculptors  were  getting  the  short  end,  since  the  Orthodox  Church 
didn’t  approve  of  any  sculpture  more  three-dimensional  than  a 3/4  profile  fresco. 

Kathleen  Bartholomew  & Kage  Baker 


28 


Asimov's 

Anyway,  this  was  Constantinople!  I could  bribe  the  guy  to  relocate  and  take  up 
mural  painting,  or  something. 

Okay,  message  received,  plan  initiated,  security  guidelines  adhered  to,  and  I prob- 
ably wouldn’t  have  to  have  any  of  my  muleteers  whack  a struggling  religious  artist. 
I finished  off  the  xocolatl  in  my  cup,  and  settled  down  for  a nice,  restorative  nap. 

Phil  hung  around  for  a few  days  while  I got  together  a few  mule  loads  of  hashish 
and  olive  oil.  Then  I sent  them  all  off  with  six  of  the  boys  to  Goblecki  Tepe  to  bury 
some  relic  he’d  fetched  from  Malta.  It’d  be  safe  there  for  the  next  sixteen  hundred 
years,  he  told  me  happily,  and  when  it  was  found,  it’d  spark  the  beginnings  of  the 
Ephesian  Movement. 

“I’ll  make  sure  they  can  pay  for  all  that  red  granite  you’re  packing  up,  Joseph,”  he 
assured  me,  and  went  off  singing  lewd  rounds  with  the  Security  guys. 

Happy  days,  yeah.  I do  have  to  admit,  it  was  a lot  more  fun  to  salt  future  digs  with 
Classical  art  in  those  days.  You  felt  like  you  were  making  a real  difference. 

Meanwhile  I had  an  ikon  painter  to  rob  and  terrorize. 

Other  than  wondering  how  Nikephoros  had  pissed  off  Dr.  Zeus,  it  was  a fairly 
straightforward  assignment.  The  guy  made  something  artistic,  with  a weird  reputa- 
tion; we  were  sending  stuff  like  that  forward  by  the  metric  ton  in  those  days.  Maybe 
he’d  welched  on  a prior  deal  with  the  Company — which  was  not  only  professional 
suicide,  but  often  the  real  thing;  Dr.  Z.  didn’t  like  its  sources  knowing  about  the  Com- 
pany unless  they  were  firmly  under  control. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  files,  though.  So  I went  hunting. 

Nikephoros  lived  in  one  of  the  older,  smaller  streets  off  the  Mese,  more  or  less  be- 
tween the  Harbor  of  Elutherios  and  the  Cow  Palace.  It  was  a poor  neighborhood — not 
much  of  a sea  view,  but  a real  amazing  smell  of  fish.  And  when  the  wind  changed, 
you  got  the  fragrant  breeze  from  the  Eorum  Bovis.  Smells  of  money,  yeah,  but  not  for 
the  folks  who  lived  down  here  where  you  could  smell  them. 

I found  his  studio  pretty  easily.  It  was  obviously  an  ex-pigeon  coop  built  against 
the  wall  of  an  older  house.  Nobody  answered  hails  at  either  door,  and  it  just  so  hap- 
pened that  the  courtyard  was  actually  a blind  pocket  of  a place  framed  by  ware- 
houses. It  was  easy  to  force  the  studio  door  and  take  a look  inside. 

It  stank  of  stale  pigeons,  old  eggs,  and  fresh  turpentine,  which  is  not  one  of  the  best 
smells  of  the  exotic  East.  Except  for  the  brushes  in  a cracked  vase  and  several 
prepped  wooden  blanks  for  ikons,  the  place  was  a mess;  he  obviously  worked  in  tem- 
pera and  liked  to  gesture  dramatically  with  a loaded  brush.  He  might  have  beaten 
Pollack  to  the  punch,  if  he  hadn’t  been  fourteen  hundred  years  out  of  synch  with  the 
world  of  art. . . . 

There  were  three  finished  ikons  in  sight.  Nikephoros  was  good,  I guess — but  I’m 
no  judge.  To  me,  all  ikons  look  like  evil  cartoons:  the  long  narrow  faces,  bisected  by 
long  narrow  noses;  the  huge  darkened  eyes,  the  pinched,  feminine  mouths  . . . you 
know,  they  looked  a lot  like  some  sort  of  anime  characters  with  really  bad  depres- 
sion. But  mortals  have  been  crazy  about  them  since  they  were  first  invented.  And 
since  Nikephoros  was  working  for  Isidore  on  Hagia  Sophia,  these  mournful  faces 
with  their  pointed  chins  and  long  hands  posturing  stiffly  must  be  well-done  evil  car- 
toons, right? 

They  were  still  weird.  But  they  sure  as  hell  didn’t  affect  me  at  all  adversely,  and 
none  of  my  scans  showed  anything  more  dangerous  than  that  Nikephoros  was 
maybe  using  cheap  turpentine  and  elderly  eggs  in  his  tempera  paint.  No  Cromes  Ra- 
diation, no  psychotropic  fumes,  no  hypnotic  spirals  to  amaze  your  friends.  No  urge  to 
go  crazy. 

So  how  were  these  horse-faced  saints  driving  people  nuts? 


Pareidolia 


29 


March  2015 


I took  the  three  of  them  an3rway,  wrapped  up  in  a length  of  muslin  I also  stole  from 
him.  With  the  mess  in  there,  he’d  never  notice.  He  might  not  notice  the  missing  ikons. 

They  had  no  effect  on  the  Security  guys  either. 

I reported  that  I’d  scored  all  the  stock  in  the  studio,  but  didn’t  get  anything  more 
enlightening  from  the  credenza  but  an  “Acknowledged”  blip.  The  next  stop  would 
have  to  be  the  work  site  itself,  where  hopefully  Nikephoros  hadn’t  covered  too  much 
of  the  rising  walls  yet  with  his  art. 

I had  no  idea  how  I’d  get  them  off  if  he  had. 

Next  morning,  I packed  a wallet  of  salted  figs  and  fresh  mizithra  cheese,  and  took 
a walk  across  the  city  to  go  gawk  at  Hagia  Sophia. 

My  place  was  in  the  northeast  of  the  city,  near  the  base  of  the  Fifth  Hill,  overlook- 
ing the  Golden  Horn.  It  was  a pretty  empty  quarter  then,  but  we  were  close  to  the 
Phanarion  Gate  in  the  Sea  Wall,  so  my  caravans  could  access  the  coast  roads.  There 
was  a graveyard  close  by,  which  kept  the  passersby  moving  through  quickly.  And  a 
graveyard  is  always  handy  for  a quick  stash.  This  one  was  going  to  be  undisturbed 
until  they  built  the  Church  of  St.  Mary  of  the  Mongols  on  it,  when  it  would  then  be- 
come the  only  church  in  Constantinople  that  never  got  converted  to  a mosque.  That’s 
just  the  sort  of  place  the  Company  looks  for. 

On  the  inside  of  the  Sea  Wall,  though,  it  was  a pretty  straight  walk  down  the  east- 
ern edge  of  Constantinople  toward  the  First  Hill.  Hagia  Sophia  was  right  there,  west 
of  the  Acropolis  and  east  of  the  Hippodrome.  There  was  always  a floating  mob  drift- 
ing around,  and  sidewalk  superintendents  could  take  in  the  show  on  the  building 
site  with  no  questions  asked. 

It  was  a chilly  morning,  with  a steady  wind  coming  off  the  Bosphorus.  I’d  added  a 
round  paludamentum  cloak  over  my  tunica  before  I left,  and  I wished  I could  have 
added  leggings  or  trousers,  too.  But  in  fashionable  circles,  pants  implied  barbarism — 
and  the  mob  that  hung  around  the  Hippodrome  was  as  fashiionable  as  they  came.  Stu- 
pid, aggressive,  and  dumb  as  a box  of  rocks,  like  sports  fans  anywhere  and  anywhen, 
but  fashionable.  I didn’t  want  to  draw  any  attention  from  the  racing  touts  down  there. 

I needn’t  have  worried.  No  one  could  have  cared  less  about  one  more  short  dark 
guy  in  plain  clothes.  Everyone  was  either  waiting  anxiously  for  the  first  day’s  races, 
or  strutting  around  to  be  seen  themselves. 

The  damnedest  things  repeat  through  human  culture,  you  know?  All  these  guys’d 
flip  out  automatically  if  they  thought  someone  was  looking  at  them  funny.  “Looking 
at  me  funny”  has  always  been  a great  way  to  get  stomped.  It  was  hard  to  keep  a 
straight  face,  though,  if  you’d  been  educated  in  culture-yet-to-be:  the  sports  factions 
in  Constantinople  all  wore  their  hair  cropped  short  in  front  and  in  long  tails  at  the 
back.  So  I’d  see  these  deadly  serious  guys  in  their  Byzantine  mullets,  and  the  un- 
ending human  comedy  was  just  hilarious.  You’ve  got  to  keep  looking  on  the  enter- 
taining side  of  history,  you  know?  Or  this  job  will  beat  you  down. . . . 

Luckily,  because  of  the  Hippodrome  crowd,  there  were  always  food  and  drink  ven- 
dors down  there.  I got  a cup  of  hot,  spiced,  sweetened  wine — Constantinople  was  on 
a constant  sugar  high,  they  sweetened  everything — and  strolled  over  to  the  con- 
struction site. 

They’d  been  at  it  for  a couple  of  years.  It  was  still  a sea  of  mud  with  islands  of  ran- 
dom building  materials,  improvised  straw  matting  paths  between  them  (I  saw  the 
pile  of  red  granite  I’d  pillaged  for  the  Ephesians;  still  not  being  used),  but  the  shape 
of  the  place  was  coming  clear.  That  dome  was  gonna  be  a bitch . . . but  at  the  moment, 
the  workmen  were  all  moving  slowly,  staring  down  at  what  would  be  the  apse  when 
it  got  a roof  A crowd  of  workers,  and  lookie-loos  like  me,  was  gathered  on  that  edge. 

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Asimov's 


They  were  all  staring  in  and  down.  As  I approached,  I could  see  the  guys  in  the 
back  trying  to  leap  up  to  peer  over  the  shoulders  in  front  of  them.  Just  then,  a weird 
choked  howl  broke  out  in  the  middle  of  the  press,  and  everybody  jumped  back. 

No  one  jumped  further  than  me;  I ended  up  on  top  of  a stack  of  marble  blocks. 
Down  on  the  partially  tiled  floor,  a guy  in  a porter’s  rough  tunic  was  writhing  around 
bleeding. 

I mean,  he  was  fountaining  blood.  He  was  bleeding  from  his  eyes,  but  mostly  from 
his  nose — the  sort  where  a cranial  artery  pops  and  you  bleed  out  through  your  nasal 
passages.  As  I stared,  he  gave  another  of  those  bubbling  howls,  convulsed  a last  time, 
and  was  still. 

Scanning,  I could  note  all  his  life  processes  terminating  in  that  sloppy,  piecemeal 
way  mortals  die.  I always  hate  seeing  that.  This  guy’s  brain  activity  ran  on  for  a few 
seconds  after  his  heart  stopped  pumping,  with  an  EEG  that  was  definitely  weird;  a 
stroke?  It  read  like  he’d  been  hit  by  lightning,  two  different  electrical  patterns  try- 
ing to  take  shape  in  microwaved  brain  tissue. 

And  standing  there  on  the  other  side  of  the  body  was  none  other  than  wall-eyed 
young  Nikephoros,  with  something  square  and  flat  wrapped  up  in  his  chlamys.  His 
eyes  were  popping  out  of  his  head  in  opposite  directions. 

Another  guy  was  coming  at  a dead  run  from  inside  the  uncompleted  apse — much 
better  dressed,  a dalmatica  over  a long  chiton,  and  gilded  leather  shoes.  He  was  car- 
rying a big  battered  scroll  that  had  to  be  a blueprint,  waving  it  over  his  head  like  a 
battle  axe. 

My  new  orders  identified  him  as  Isidore.  They  hadn’t  mentioned  his  homicidal 
tendencies,  though,  so  I was  sort  of  surprised  when  he  tried  to  brain  poor  Nikephoros 
with  the  scroll. 

“What  have  you  done  now?”  he  shrieked.  “Which  one  of  them  have  you  traduced  to 
evil  this  time?” 

He  swung  again.  Nikephoris  ducked  desperately,  duck-walked  up  the  hem  of  his 
own  cloak  and  went  flat  on  his  arse  beside  the  dead  man.  The  thing  wrapped  in  his 
arms  flew  out  and  landed  face  up  in  front  of  the  fascinated  crowd. 

And,  I swear,  they  all  screamed  like  little  girls  and  took  off!  One  minute  they  were 
as  rapt  as  any  bunch  of  loiterers  who’s  just  seen  an  entertaining  industrial  acci- 
dent— the  next  they  were  leaping  through  the  construction  site  like  gazelles,  trailed 
by  oaths  to  the  One  and  the  Three.  Half  the  workmen  went  with  them,  too. 

I was  still  on  my  marble  perch.  I looked  down — surprise,  there  was  an  ikon  on  the 
ground  in  front  of  me,  which  Isidore  was  avoiding  like  the  coming  plague.  I could  see 
the  figure  on  it  was  holding  a brick,  had  a bishop’s  crown  and  one  eye  bleeding  copi- 
ously— probably  St.  Spyridon,  who’d  lost  his  eye  to  persecution,  and  was  the  patron 
of  workers  in  clay. 

I couldn’t  see  how  it  had  given  the  dead  workman  that  brain-burn.  But  sure  as  five 
loaves  and  a pair  of  fishes,  this  was  what  the  Company  report  was  talking  about. 

With  everybody  left  on  the  building  site  hovering  around  with  eyes  averted,  no  one 
was  making  any  effort  at  picking  up  either  the  ikon  or  the  stiff.  I jumped  down,  slung 
off  my  paludamentum  and  covered  the  dead  guy  up.  When  I turned  to  the  ikon, 
though,  both  Isidore  and  Nikephoros  screeched  like  a pair  of  geese.  So  did  some  of 
the  other  workmen  still  hanging  back  around  the  beginnings  of  the  apse. 

Don’t  look  at  it  was  the  gist  of  their  yelling.  I turned  and  let  everyone  see  me  make 
a big  deal  about  putting  my  hand  over  one  eye,  and  then  picked  the  thing  up. 

An  ikon;  big  surprise.  And  yeah,  it  was  Spyridon,  with  his  gouged-out  eye  resting 
on  top  of  his  brick.  It  was  pretty  well  done,  too — better  than  the  ones  I’d  stolen  from 
Nikephoros’  studio.  There  was  a complicated  pattern  on  the  edges  of  the  Saint’s  robe, 
and  it  was  repeated  in  miniature  in  the  pupils  of  both  staring  eyes — ^which  certainly 


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drew  the  gaze  to  them.  It  was  a big  fat  blank  as  far  as  high  weirdness  was  concerned, 
though:  no  radiation,  no  death  rays  shooting  from  either  of  Spyridon’s  eyes.  On  im- 
pulse, I peeked  through  the  fingers  of  my  shielding  hand. 

I couldn’t  exactly  meet  the  saint’s  split  level  gaze,  but  with  both  my  eyes  on  both  of 
his,  I felt — a tingle.  A funny  S3mcopated  ripple  in  my  cerebellum,  a kind  of  drumbeat 
sensation  at  the  left  side  of  my  brain. . . . 

Our  brains  are  protected  in  ways  a mortal’s  brain  couldn’t  even  begin  to  sustain — 
training,  implants,  augmentations;  and  in  the  case  of  an  Operative  as  old  I was  (just 
over  twenty  thousand  years  old  that  spring,  thank  you  very  much)  millennia  of  prac- 
tice in  using  an  organ  far  removed  from  standard  mortal  issue.  But  best  of  all,  our 
brains  are  enclosed  in  tiny,  private  Time  Transcendence  fields — each  one  of  us  is 
permanently  a nanosecond  out  of  synch  with  entropic  time. 

It’s  meant  to  keep  out  things  like  rocks  and  axes.  It  also  protects  from  less  tangible 
forces.  I could  feel  something  trjdng  to  coax  my  alpha  waves  to  change  their  rhythm, 
but  it  wasn’t  working. 

I looked  up  at  my  immediate  audience  and  shrugged. 

“It  looks  fine  to  me.  Not  even  scratched,  see?”  and  I held  it  out  to  Isidore. 

He  yelled  and  threw  his  hands  over  his  face.  Nikephoros — who  couldn’t  have 
looked  straight  at  anything  if  his  life  depended  on  it — scrambled  up  and  snatched 
the  ikon  away  from  me.  Once  it  was  stashed  away  in  the  folds  of  his  chlamys  again, 
both  of  them  stood  staring  at  me. 

“Are  you — all  right?”  asked  Isidore  cautiously.  He  used  that  universal  tone  of  voice 
that  always  means  they  expect  you  to  scream  and  fall  down  dead  . . . but  I couldn’t 
even  feel  that  tingle  now,  not  with  the  ikon  hidden.  “You  must  be  wearing  some 
charm  to  protect  you  from  that  poisonous  thing’s  Medusa-gaze!” 

He  expected  it  to  kill  people?  Neat. 

“I  told  you,  Kupios,  it’s  only  dangerous  to  evil  men,”  pleaded  Nikephoros. 

He  turned  the  ikon  to  face  himself  and  stared  desperately  at  it.  “See?  Nothing  hap- 
pens to  me!” 

I don’t  know  if  Isidore  was  thinking  about  that  wall-eyed  stare,  or  had  just  had  enough 
of  the  artist  and  his  work.  He  sure  wasn’t  impressed  it  didn’t  kill  Nikephoros,  though, 
and  managed  to  land  a good  whack  with  his  scroll  on  the  back  of  Nikephoros’  head. 

“It’s  not  our  place  to  put  art  on  the  walls  of  the  basilica  that  kills  men!”  he  told 
Nikephoros.  “The  ikon  of  the  Christ  you  painted  has  driven  three  men  into  fits,  and 
Alexander  the  grouter  is  still  seeing  visions!  Now  this  one  has  burst  Georgios’ 
brains!  Take  that  thing  and  get  out  of  here — and  don’t  come  back  until  you’re  pre- 
pared to  take  the  other  one  down  and  away  with  you  as  well!” 

“But  I only  did  what  you  told  me  to  do — ” Nikephoros  skipped  back  hastily  as 
Isidore  took  aim  at  his  head,  and  ran  off  for  the  street. 

Isidore  stood  panting,  glaring  after  Nikephoros  until  the  kid  had  run  out  of  view. 
Then  he  waved  his  arms  at  the  workmen  still  left  on  site. 

‘You!  CjTius,  Aemilian,  come  take  this  poor  man’s  body  to  his  wife.  The  rest  of  you, 
get  back  to  work!” 

One  of  the  men  coming  forward  made  to  give  me  back  my  cloak,  but  I told  him  to 
keep  it  wrapped  round  the  body — poor  Mrs.  Georgios  was  going  to  get  a bad  enough 
shock  just  seeing  her  hubby  carried  home  dead,  let  alone  bare  and  bloody.  One  of  the 
other  workers  sidled  up  to  Isidore. 

“Um — Kupios,  the  other  one  is  still  up  there  in  the  comer,”  he  mumbled.  He  wmng 
his  hands.  “We’re  afraid  to  go  back  over  there — ^who  knows  if  the  ikon  will  decide  one 
of  us  is  a sinner?” 

“You’re  all  sinners,  not  that  the  ikons  can  tell,”  Isidore  said  in  disgust.  “That 
wretched  Nikephoros  has  done  something  to  them,  something . . . it’s  acheiropoieta ” 

32  Kathleen  Bartholomew  & Kage  Baker 


Asimov's 


The  word  he  used  meant  not  made  by  hand,  and  he  wasn’t  talking  about  mass  pro- 
duction. He  meant  magic,  or  as  much  of  it  as  a devout  mathematician  in  Constan- 
tinople was  prepared  to  believe  in.  It  meant  the  ikon  had  a quality,  an  inborn  quality, 
that  wasn’t  the  result  of  the  work  of  man.  Something  divine,  something  dangerous.  I 
gotta  admit,  I was  inclined  to  agree  with  him. 

“Kupios?”  I stepped  back  into  the  fray.  “I  do  have  a charm  that  protects  me.  Let  me 
remove  this  other  ikon  from  your  work,  and  I’ll  return  it  to  the  artist.  It’ll  be  an  act  of 
virtue,  which  all  men  need.” 

Isidore’s  face  lit  up,  but  he  wasn’t  going  to  look  stupid  in  front  of  his  men.  “What 
charm,  how  does  it  work?”  he  demanded. 

I pulled  out  the  medal  of  Luke  I was  wearing  in  those  days  and  showed  him. 

“Patron  of  painters.  Might  do  it,”  he  allowed. 

“Also,”  I said  on  impulse,  “I  am  blind  in  my  left  eye.” 

If  Isidore  could  tell  any  difference  between  my  eyes,  he  had  magic  talents  of  his 
own.  But  he  stared  good  and  hard  at  each  of  them,  and  then  nodded. 

“On  your  own  head  be  it,”  he  said  and  turned  away. 

So  the  workmen  led  me  under  the  partially  completed  dome,  where  the  niches  that 
would  hold  lesser  altars  were  going  in.  Up  in  the  groin  of  one  was  a nicely  done  ikon  of 
Christ  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  holding  up  his  hand  in  benediction.  The  guy  with  me  point- 
ed the  painting  out  while  hiding  from  its  line  of  sight  behind  a half-completed  pillar. 

I snagged  a ladder  and  retrieved  the  ikon.  Again,  it  was  a better  one  than  those  I’d 
stolen  the  night  before,  but  I was  careful  not  to  meet  its  gaze  until  I got  down  to  the 
floor  with  it.  A brief  glimpse  started  up  that  syncopated  feeling  again  on  the  left  side 
of  my  skull,  so  I prudently  held  the  Incarnate  Lord  facedown  against  my  chest  as  I 
walked  out. 

There  were  looks  of  relief  (and  disappointment — the  ikon’s  last  victim  had  been  a 
heck  of  a show)  and  a weak  cheer  when  I walked  out.  Isidore  came  up  to  meet  me,  a 
burlap  sack  in  his  hands. 

“Here,  here,  put  the  thing  out  of  sight!”  he  ordered.  He  squinched  his  eyes  shut 
while  I put  the  ikon  in  the  bag,  and  then  handed  the  whole  thing  to  me  with  obvious 
relief  I tucked  it  under  my  arm. 

“Take  it  to  that  idiot  Nikephoros,”  he  ordered,  as  we  started  walking  to  the  street. 
He  handed  me  a small  leather  bag.  “And  take  this;  there’s  six  solidii  in  there,  for  your 
act  of  faith,  I insist.” 

Now,  that  was  a nice  return  for  taking  away  something  I needed  to  acquire  any- 
way. I put  it  in  my  pouch  with  no  argument 

“What  is  your  name,  and  your  business?”  he  asked,  walking  me  to  the  edge  of  the 
site.  He  really  wanted  to  see  the  back  of  me  and  that  ikon. 

“Name’s  Josephus,  Kupios.  I have  a caravan  business  over  by  the  Fifth  Hill,”  I said. 

“And  are  you  a Chalcedonian?”  he  asked. 

He  didn’t  mean  the  old  country,  he  meant  a Chalcedonian  Christian.  And  since  it 
was  the  sect  that  the  Emperor  Justinian  currently  favored,  I assured  him  I was. 

“For  this  favor,  then,  I will  have  your  name  etched  under  the  doorjamb  of  that 
niche  you  cleared  for  us,”  he  said  earnestly 

Now  that,  given  the  custom  of  the  country  and  the  time,  was  a damned  nice  thing 
to  do;  better  than  the  cash,  to  most  men.  I’d  accrue  all  sorts  of  spiritual  benefits  un- 
til Hagia  Sophia  burned  again,  with  my  name  there.  If  I’d  actually  been  a Chal- 
cedonian Christian,  at  least.  So  I thanked  him  nicely,  and  went  on  my  way. 

The  first  curious  bystander  stepped  into  my  path  from  behind  a wine  vendor’s  cart 
before  I got  ten  feet  off  the  building  site.  The  wide  green  vertical  stripe  on  his  cloak 
made  his  politics  plain.  So  did  his  balloon  sleeves  and  bushy  beard — Mother  Nature 
had  already  moved  his  hairline  back  to  his  ears  for  him,  though. 


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March  2015 


“Hey  there,  what’d  you  see?  What  you  got  in  the  bag,  huh?  “ 

“Is  it  one  of  the  cursed  ikons?”  came  a second  eager  voice  from  behind  me.  Other 
concerned  bystanders  chimed  right  in. 

“Let’s  see!” 

“Make  Cadmus  look,  he’s  already  cross-eyed!” 

“Is  that  it  in  the  bag?” 

My  proximity  alarms  were  twitching  like  massed  aneurysms  in  my  vestibular  sys- 
tem. A hand  plucked  at  my  shoulder,  and  I could  feel  the  heat  of  the  crowd  coming 
up  far  too  close  behind  me. . . . 

I turned — slow,  but  with  my  elbows  out,  so  neither  of  my  new  buddies  could  get  a 
hand  on  the  bag.  Yeah,  there  was  a good-sized  group  just  beginning  to  seethe  there  in 
the  street.  I grinned  at  all  of  them,  and  held  the  bag  out. 

“Who’s  brave  and  stupid?”  I roared  suddenly,  and  let  the  mouth  of  the  bag  flop 
open  in  a quick  brief  flash  of  red  and  gold. 

Sure  enough,  that  moved  them!  There  were  a few  more  girly  screams,  and  it 
looked  like  the  front  men  levitated  about  a yard  backward.  There  was  a decent  crowd 
here  now,  and  all  of  them  wore  some  Green  stripe  or  ribbon  or  stamped  design  on 
their  cloaks.  Crowded  together  as  they  were,  they  were  basically  a baby  mob.  But 
they  were  intrigued  and  nervous,  and  I had  their  full  attention. 

“All  right,  citizens,  you  saw  that  poor  bugger  die  over  there!”  I waved  my  free  arm 
down  the  street,  where  the  late  Georgios  was  being  carried  away  in  my  bloodied 
cloak.  “I  don’t  know  what  this  thing  does,  but  the  esteemed  Isidore  is  sending  it  back 
to  its  maker  so  no  one  else  gets  hurt.  So  just  let  me  get  on  with  my  work,  eh?” 

“What  makes  you  so  special?”  someone  called  (from  well  behind  another  by- 
stander, I noted). 

I pulled  out  the  medal  of  Luke  again.  “I’m  under  the  protection  of  the  Evangelist 
Luke.”  I pitched  my  voice  to  carry  to  the  back  of  the  crowd.  “And  I’m  blind  in  one  eye. 
And  my  mother  had  me  blessed  at  birth  against  any  enchantment  of  vision.  And  I’m 
buying  a drink  for  everybody  here!” 

I pulled  out  one  of  the  solidii — gold  ones,  too;  Isidore  played  fair — and  tossed  it  to  the 
wine  vendor  at  the  edge  of  the  crowd.  He  plucked  it  out  of  the  air,  yelling  with  delight, 
and  began  calling  out,  “Wine!  Red  and  white,  honeyed  or  resined,  first  cup  free!” 

I walked  away  with  great  dignity  and  long  strides  as  the  crowd  availed  themselves 
of  my  generosity. 

I had  to  get  that  second  ikon,  and  I knew  where  Nikephoros  lived. . . . 

So  there  I was,  striding  along  through  the  streets  of  Constantinople  with  revealed 
truth  under  my  arm.  And  there  was  something  ringing  small,  insistent  alarms  in  the 
back  of  my  mind.  Not  a hunch — this  was  the  kind  of  neuron  static  only  an  Operative 
can  feel,  where  some  deeply  buried  security  program  has  reached  a conclusion  your 
conscious  mind  missed,  and  is  raising  hell  about  it.  Like  a red  light  flashing  in  the 
corner  of  the  screen,  if  that  red  light  also  made  an  annoying  noise  and  smelled  bad. 

Near  the  Cow  Palace  I just  couldn’t  take  it  any  more.  The  addition  of  the  smells 
from  massed  cattle  to  the  uproar  at  the  back  of  my  mind  was  starting  to  make  me 
seriously  sick  to  my  stomach.  I sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a tiny  municipal  fountain, 
opened  the  bag  and  took  a good  long  look  at  the  ikon. 

It  was  a pretty  standard  Christos — one  long  hand  raised  to  draw  attention  to  the 
complicated  gilt  and  crimson  pattern  on  his  chest.  That  looked  like  a medal  from  the 
Fredonian  army,  but  it  was  obviously  meant  to  be  the  Sacred  Heart.  There  was  a pat- 
tern painted  all  tiny  in  the  figure’s  sad  black  eyes,  matching  a complex  ball  of  flame 
in  Christ’s  other  hand,  and  I could  feel  the  imbedded  pattern  trying  to  convince  me 
that  the  heart  and  eyes  of  Christ  were  fixed  on  me  from  everywhere. . . . 

Kathleen  Bartholomew  & Kage  Baker 


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Asimov's 


Yeah,  this  was  definitely  the  source  of  my  unease:  the  bells  and  whistles  went 
frantic  at  the  sight  of  it.  That  left-brain  buzzing  started  up  again,  too.  But  there  was 
nothing  apparently  insanity-producing,  unless  people  had  been  losing  their  minds 
from  the  sheer  persistence  of  the  thing  . . . but  everyone  else  was  a mortal.  They 
weren’t  hearing  what  I could  hear — and  they  might  well  be  seeing  something  my  cy- 
borged  eyes  were  filtering  out. . . . 

There  are  ways  of  turning  our  augmented  sensorium  down,  to  approximate  mortal 
input.  There’s  seldom  any  use  for  it,  and  it  actually  counts  as  a minor  hazard  in  most 
circumstances.  However,  every  baby  operative  learns  how  to  do  it,  from  the  older 
kids.  Get  enough  children  together,  and  they’ll  generate  stupid,  dangerous  games  as 
naturally  as  sweat.  Wandering  around  seeing  ever3rthing  in  UV  or  out  of  focus  or  up- 
side down  can  be  pretty  funny  when  you’re  eleven  years  old. 

In  this  case,  it  might  show  me  what  the  mortals  were  seeing. 

I tried  turning  the  UV  and  IR  filters  on  and  off:  Nothing,  although  the  colors 
changed  interestingly.  There  was  a very  slight  heat  being  generated — but  it  was  the 
continuing  decay  of  bad  tempera  paint,  not  radioactivity.  The  thing  didn’t  glow  in 
any  range  of  the  spectrum. 

Next  I tried  the  focus.  Sharpening — no  good,  no  mortal  could  see  that  clearly. 
Fuzzing  it  out  felt  promising,  though — the  bubbling  feeling  kicked  up  a notch.  And 
something  was  stirring  waaay  down  in  my  memory  . . . when  I had  my  vision  dialed 
down  so  far  Christ  looked  like  a Mondrian  painting,  a word  suddenly  burst  into  my 
immediate  consciousness:  bright  red,  wreathed  in  flames  and  cherubs  and  smelling 
of  mushrooms  and  the  mud  of  the  Nile:  PAREIDOLIS. 

What  the  fuck?  I wondered.  And  then  it  all  came  together  and  my  unconscious 
stopped  screwing  around  with  euphemisms,  and  I remembered  where  I’d  encoun- 
tered this  before — the  method  of  making  a perfect  image,  to  literally  enthrall  the 
viewer.  To  make  them  see  patterns  everywhere,  especially  patterns  encoded  in  sculp- 
ture or  paintings  using  the  elements  of  mathematical  proportions. 

Djoser.  Djoser  and  the  damned  formulae  for  perfect  squares.  And  shoulders.  And 
noses.  And  especially  eyes. 

That  ball  of  multicolored  fire  in  Christ’s  hand;  an  aspect  of  his  divinity?  The  Holy 
Ghost?  Hell,  maybe  it  was  a magic  mushroom.  But  the  flames  caught  the  eye  of  the 
beholder,  and  at  once  started  to  actually  writhe;  the  pupils  of  his  elongated  eyes  did 
the  same  thing,  in  their  separate  settings.  And  when  I wrenched  my  own  eyes  away 
and  looked  out  at  the  wall  beside  me — Christ’s  face  and  burning  eyes  leaped  out  at 
me  from  every  constellation  of  cracks  in  the  plaster. 

I looked  down — yep,  Christ  again,  his  face  forming  in  the  swirls  of  dust  in  the 
street.  Even  the  colors  in  his  eyes  showed,  the  repeating,  twisting  pattern  of  the 
flames.  I could  pick  it  out  in  the  weave  of  my  tunic  hem.  I could  find  it  in  the  detail 
carving  on  the  rim  of  the  fountain  bowl.  I turned  and  looked  over  at  the  nearest  cat- 
tle pen  by  the  Forum  Bovis. 

The  Son  of  Man  and  his  psychedelic  eyes  were  framed  in  every  matted  coat.  Divine 
cowlicks! 

There  was  no  telling  how  Nikephoros  had  done  it,  not  just  from  the  ikons.  I had  to  go 
find  him  and  get  the  information  out  of  him.  If  he’d  somehow  reinvented  this,  I’d  have 
to  wipe  the  memory  out  of  his  mind — ^which  might  take  his  skills  at  painting  with  it, 
but  orders  are  orders,  and  it  would  be  better  than  bashing  his  head  in.  But  if  he’d  got- 
ten the  formulae  from  somewhere  else,  I had  to  find  them  and  confiscate  them. 

There  are  times  and  places  when  you  want  religious  art  to  literally  talk  to  people. 
Constantinople  on  the  brink  of  bubonic  plague  probably  wasn’t  one  of  them. 

I could  feel  it,  the  pattern  recognition  bug,  trying  to  seize  a permanent  place  in  my 
brain.  Pointless,  of  course,  but  it  couldn’t  know  that.  The  whole  damned  trick  was  just 


Pareidolia 


35 


March  2015 


based  on  the  proportions  of  the  ikon,  steered  by  the  colors  and  shapes  Nikephoros  had 
chosen.  The  ones  he’d  chosen  for  the  Sacred  Heart  of  Christ  apparently  sent  you  on  a 
very  bad  trip. 

I took  off  running  for  Nikephoros’  pigeon  coop  of  wonders. 

He  was  home.  He’d  just  been  thrown  off  the  construction  site,  blamed  for  the  death 
of  a workman;  where  else  would  he  be?  In  fact,  I found  him  in  his  studio,  sitting 
hunched  on  a bench  and  staring  at  a rectangular  object  swathed  in  burlap.  He  didn’t 
react  when  I came  storming  in. 

“So,  Nikephoros,  what  does  that  one  do?”  I asked  him,  and  then  stepped  up  to 
twitch  the  cloth  off  it. 

“Don’t  look  at  it!”  he  yelled — sounded  authentically  scared,  too.  I looked  at  him — 
then  turned  to  take  a good  long  look  at  the  ikon. 

Same  effect  as  before,  same  effect  as  the  image  of  Christ:  but  not  compassionate. 
This  felt  more — aggressive.  Spyridon  was  glaring  outrage  at  the  viewer.  Not  a happy 
martyr,  apparently.  I felt  simultaneously  guilty  and  paranoid  about  attack.  My  blood 
pressure  wanted  to  rise,  my  adrenal  glands  were  tr3dng  to  go  into  overdrive.  Instant 
aneurysm!  It’d  be  an  easy  thing  for  these  reactions,  superimposed  on  the  natural 
rhythms  of  a mortal’s  brain,  to  raise  the  blood  pressure  enough  for  a blood  vessel  to 
pop. 

“Never  mind,  I can  tell  what  it  does.  But  it  won’t  hurt  me,  Nicky,  so  calm  down.”  I 
put  my  ikon  on  the  shelf  next  to  it.  Yeah,  the  eyes  of  God  and  amorphous  shapes  of 
horror  and  guilt,  all  prying  together  at  the  armor  of  my  mind.  Lovecraft  would  have 
liked  it:  just  before  he  flipped  out. 

I sat  down  next  to  Nikephoros.  He  was  staring  at  me,  obviously  sure  I was  about  to 
go  bonkers  right  in  front  of  him. 

“It  doesn’t  affect  me,”  I told  him  again.  “Or  you,  obviously.  So  why  doesn’t  it  send 
you  crazy?” 

“I — I think  I have  a dispensation,  because  I painted  them,”  he  said  shakily.  He 
looked  at  me — and,  at  the  same  time,  the  ikons. 

“I  don’t  think  so,  Nicky.  I think  it’s  because  you’re  incredibly  wall-eyed,”  I said. 
“Can  you  even  see  out  of  both  eyes  at  the  same  time?” 

He  scowled.  “No,  but  I can  see  out  of  both  of  them.  Just  not  together.  I just  tilt  my 
head.  Look  at  those!”  He  pointed  at  the  ikons.  “They’re  perfect!  I can  see  just  fine  to 
paint!” 

“Where’d  you  get  the  formulae?”  I asked.  “For  the  designs?” 

He  got  a shifty  look  on  his  face.  Ever  seen  someone  like  him  look  shifty?  Very  dis- 
turbing ...  I could  tell  from  his  biometrics  he  was  about  to  tell  a great  big  whopping 
lie,  so  I stepped  in  with  a suggestion  first:  for  the  good  of  his  soul,  as  it  were. 

“It  was  from  Isidore,  wasn’t  it?  An  old  scroll,  or  some  codex?”  I took  off  the  big 
bronze  penannular  pin  I wore  on  my  shoulder.  “Don’t  lie  to  me,  now.  Your  mouth  may 
say  No,  but  your  heart  rate  says  Yes,  yes.  So  does  your  brain  activity.  In  fact,  your 
whole  metabolism  is  interesting,  because  the  ikons  are  trying  hard  to  screw  up  your 
mind,  and  I want  to  see  why  it  doesn’t  work  on  you.” 

Yeah,  I pretty  much  dropped  character  completely  there,  but  it  was  clear  I was  go- 
ing to  have  to  play  some  dirty  tricks  on  Nikephoros’  memories  anyway.  I didn’t  have 
time  for  my  usual  brilliant  performance  as  a local. 

“He  gave  me  an  old  scroll.  I did  exactly  what  it  said  to  do,  too!  It  was  full  of  math- 
ematics, and  models  of  angles.  I had  to  use  measuring  cords  and  map  pins,  but — they 
were  perfect!”  Nikephoros  was  sounding  less  frightened  now,  and  more  sure  of  him- 
self He  was  sure  he’d  been  screwed  over  somehow,  an3rway;  and  I really  had  to  agree 
with  him. 


36 


Kathleen  Bartholomew  & Kage  Baker 


Asimov's 


“Why  did  he  want  you  to  do  it  that  way?”  I pulled  apart  the  pin  shaft  on  my 
brooch — now  it  had  a bronze  point  on  one  end  and  a silver  needle  on  the  other.  I took 
a little  silver  ball  out  of  my  belt  pouch,  too,  and  pushed  the  bronze  point  into  a tiny 
dimple  on  the  ball.  “Did  he  tell  you  what  would  happen?” 

“He  said  they’d  be  inspiring.  He  said  no  one  could  resist  them.  That  was  all,” 
Nikephoros  said.  “I  could  see  they  were  good — the  composition  was  perfect,  I was 
proud  of  them!  But  then,  when  the  other  men  saw  them  . . . they  started  to  go  mad, 
and  Vasilikos  died!” 

“Just  like  Georgios.  Tell  me  where  the  scroll  is,  Nicky.” 

He  started  to  cry,  but  pointed  to  the  cabinet  the  ikons  were  sitting  on.  Poor  bugger. 
I was  going  to  be  doing  him  a favor  by  erasing  this  crap  in  his  mind.  It  might  save 
his  reputation,  or  even  his  life.  In  the  meantime  . . . 

“You  did  feel  something,  though,  Nicky,  didn’t  you?”  I scanned  him.  The  proof  was 
there  in  his  brain,  a lot  clearer  than  in  my  own,  since  his  was  an  original  model. 

Even  with  his  monocular  vision,  the  program  was  tr3dng  to  insert  itself  The  fusiform 
gyrus  and  the  parahippocampal  gyrus  were  both  showing  spikes  of  activity — they 
didn’t  match,  as  they  would  in  someone  with  normal  vision,  but  they  must  have  been 
giving  him  a hell  of  a headache. 

“The  ikons  are  tr3dng  to  set  up  a standing  wave  in  your  fusiform  gyrus,”  I told  him. 
“They’re  trying  to  set  you  up  with  some  nice  pareiodolic  hallucinations.  Visions. 
Faces  in  the  patterns  on  the  walls.” 

“I  don’t  understand  any  of  that,”  he  said,  staring  at  me  with  his  right  eye.  “But  I 
don’t  have  any  visions.  Did  I kill  Vasilikos  and  Georgios?” 

“No,  you  just  did  your  job  too  well,”  I said.  “They  had  visions,  and  the  visions 
wouldn’t  stop,  and  some  of  them  were  pretty  scary.  Spyridon,  for  instance.  Those 
guys  died  of  fright,  more  or  less,  because  of  the  way  they  saw  the  ikons.” 

“I  felt  a little  of  that,”  Nikephoros  whispered.  “I  finished  another  one.  The  Empress 
Augusta  Pulcheria.  But  I was  afraid  to  show  her  to  anyone.” 

“Why,  what  does  she  do?” 

Nikephoros  actually  blushed,  and  I was  hit  with  such  a wave  of  hormones  that  I 
was  pretty  sure  I could  guess  what  had  happened. 

“Overdid  it  on  the  ‘pulcheria,’  huh?” 

He  nodded  miserably. 

“Well,  listen.  I’m  going  to  make  you  forget  all  this  and  feel  a lot  better,”  I said.  I slid 
an  avuncular  arm  around  his  shaking  shoulders,  and  the  needle  tip  of  my  disguised 
hypodermic  into  his  upper  arm.  The  poor  guy  didn’t  even  flinch. 

“Now,  you  just  sit  there  and  in  a little  while  you’ll  feel  much  calmer.” 

Nikephoros  nodded  obediently  and  sat  there  waiting  to  forget.  I got  up  and 
reached  into  the  cabinet.  Yep,  there  was  a long  wooden  case  in  there.  Sitting  down 
again,  I took  out  the  scroll  that  it  held  and  took  a look. 

It  was  in  Greek  script  now,  not  the  hierogl3rphs  I’d  used  on  the  original.  Most  of  the 
sketches  were  still  recognizable,  though — they’d  probably  been  traced,  to  keep  them 
as  accurate  as  possible.  The  formulae  for  monolithic  sculpture  looked  to  be  screwed  up 
beyond  all  hope;  but  the  ones  for  painting  were  just  fine.  Worse  luck  for  Nikephoros 
and  the  gang. 

“How  are  you  feeling  now?”  I asked. 

“I’m  . . . tired.  But  my  head  doesn’t  hurt  anymore,”  he  said.  “Who  are  you?  How  are 
you  doing  this?  Why  are  you  helping  me?” 

“I’m  an  angel,  Nikephoros,  an  angel  of  the  Lord.  And  you  are  an  innocent  man  who 
doesn’t  deserve  to  be  cursed  with  this  knowledge.  Here,  look  at  this.”  I held  the  scroll 
open  before  him — ^he  stared,  rapt.  “See  all  that?  I want  you  to  forget  it.  All  of  it.  Just 
as  easy  as  forgetting  a dream.  Close  your  eyes  and  never  think  of  it  again.” 


Pareidolia 


37 


March  2015 


The  drug  I’d  given  him  not  only  erased  memories,  it  increased  focus  so  you  could 
tell  the  subject  what  to  forget.  The  River  Lethe  has  nothing  on  Dr.  Zeus’s  chemists. 
Nikephoros  shut  his  eyes  and  let  out  a long  peaceful  sigh. 

I caught  his  head  as  he  started  to  fall  over,  and  laid  him  down  on  the  bench. 

“You’ll  sleep  now,  and  not  remember  an3dhtng  about  how  you  painted  the  ikons,”  I told 
him  again.  ‘You’ll  only  remember  that  an  angel  came  and  took  the  scroll,  and  told  you  . 
. . there  are  things  mortal  man  was  not  meant  to  know.  You  can  tell  Isidore  I said  so.  Tell 
him  he  can  use  ordinary  ikons,  and  that  Hagia  Sophia  will  stand  for  a thousand  years.” 

“Will  it?”  asked  Nikephoros  sleepily. 

I calculated  a quick  sum.  “Yes,  it  really  will.  Longer,  in  fact.” 

“All  right.”  And  he  smiled  like  a happy  child,  and  went  obediently  to  sleep. 

I searched  through  his  studio  then,  looking  for  ikons  or  scrolls.  There  were  no  oth- 
er instructions  from  the  old  days  in  Egypt,  thank  all  the  gods — ^but  I found  Augusta 
Pulcheria.  I wrapped  her  securely  and  stacked  her  with  the  other  two.  He  wasn’t  kid- 
ding— the  effect  of  the  lady’s  smile  was  absolutely  amazing.  Mona  Lisa  it  was  not. 
Nikephoros  could  have  revolutionized  pornography  with  this  technique,  if  pornogra- 
phy had  needed  any  help. . . . 

There  was  a fourth  prepared  slab,  but  only  an  initial  coat  of  gesso  had  gone  on  it  so 
far.  A note  on  a scrap  of  parchment  informed  me  that  Isidore  was  hoping  for  Tychicus 
of  Chalcedon.  I left  it  there — ^Nikephoros’  work  would  be  harmless  now.  But  I wrapped 
the  other  three  up  in  a bundle  with  the  scroll,  and  took  them  all  away  with  me. 

Nikephoros  was  still  sleeping  like  a baby.  And  still  smiling. 

When  I got  back  to  my  compound,  I found  the  basket  project  in  full  swing  in  the 
courtyard.  The  Preserver  who  knew  baskets — a very  pretty  girl  named  Perdita;  she 
was  a striking  dark-eyed  blonde,  who’d  been  saved  from  tribal  warfare  in  Dalma- 
tia— ^was  obviously  having  a fine  time  teaching  all  my  big,  hairy  Security  techs  how 
to  weave  wickerwork  through  the  timber  frames  they’d  built.  It  looked  like  it  would 
work  in  time  to  get  the  caravan  off  by  tomorrow. 

“I  think  I’m  gonna  have  a special  package  to  add  to  that  before  you  leave,  boys,”  I 
said  as  I passed  through.  “Perdita,  honey,  build  one  of  those  things  with  a lid,  okay?” 

A chorus  of  affirmatives  followed  me  up  the  stairs  to  my  own  quarters.  Morale  was 
obviously  high  with  the  resident  operatives.  Maybe  I should  organize  some  more 
practical  ethnic  skills  classes  between  the  Security  boys  and  the  Preservers. . . . 

Once  locked  in  my  office,  I warmed  up  the  credenza  and  was  able  to  report  a com- 
plete victory  to  the  anon3Tnous  clerk  on  the  other  end. 

Query:  No  further  complications'? 

Me:  None.  All  the  affected  ikons  are  in  my  possession,  the  source  of  the  effect  has 
been  isolated  and  is  also  in  my  possession,  and  the  painter  has  been  drugged  to  forget 
the  entire  thing.  There  will  be  no  more  magic  ikons  here. 

Query:  What  was  the  cause? 

Me:  A Greek  translation  of  the  old  Egyptian  mathematical  formulae  for  perfect  im- 
ages. Isidore  had  it.  I have  it  now. 

Query:  How  did  Isidore  get  it? 

Me:  How  the  hell  should  I know?  I haven’t  seen  the  formula  since  I left  it  with  the 
priests  in  Heliopolis  twenty-five  hundred  years  ago!  What  do  you  want  done  with  all 
this  stuff  now? 

Statement:  Ship  the  scroll  and  all  ikons  to  the  warehouse  in  Venice,  with  Security 
escort.  They  will  be  processed  from  there. 

Me:  Acknowledged. 

Statement:  Blather  blather  squeeeal. 


38 


Kathleen  Bartholomew  & Kage  Baker 


Asimov's 


And  that  was  that — the  transmission  was  over.  No  reaction,  no  comment,  certain- 
ly no  congratulations — but  I had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  I’d  carried  out  another 
cockeyed  assignment  successfully,  ha  ha.  Tangible  successes  go  a long  way  toward 
making  this  job  bearable,  in  the  long  run.  And  it’s  all  in  the  long  run  for  us. 

Isidore  went  on  with  his  church  building,  and  Hagia  Sophia  was  technically  com- 
pleted in  537.  Wouldn’t  you  know  it,  though — Isidore  complained  loudly  about  the 
loss  of  Nikephoros’  magic  ikons  once  they  were  gone;  the  guy’s  regular  work  just 
wasn’t  as  striking.  Isidore  conveniently  overlooked  the  little  problem  with  their 
striking  observers  literally  dead.  Typical  upper  management. 

Isidore  deserved  whatever  grief  he  got,  in  my  opinion.  And  he  was  still  living  there 
when  Justinian’s  Plague  finally  broke  out  in  542,  which  was  probably  enough  trou- 
ble for  anyone. 

Me,  I got  all  my  people  out  at  least  two  years  before  the  Plague  started,  and  didn’t 
think  about  any  of  this  for  another  fifteen  hundred  or  so  years. 

Which  turned  out  to  be  a mistake,  but  hey.  I’m  not  a god.  I just  work  for  one.  O 


N 


If  it  moves  farther  away; 
if  it  passes  one  quickly, 

if  it's  massive  and  dilates 
time  in  its  gravitational 

well.  I awake  to  the  neighbor's 
radio,  the  emergency  broadcast 

system.  Light  lengthened 
to  the  end  of  the  visible 

whenever  I went  outside. 

The  radio  played 

“Soak  Up  the  Sun.” 

Everyone  reddened  and  I 

was  left  wondering  if  you 
were  moving  away  and  if 

it  would  take  a longer 
forever.  I put  on  Miles 

Davis,  “Kind  of  Blue,”  and  I 
sing  your  mass  away,  worried 

I wouldn't  recognize 
an  event  horizon  in  time. 

— Barbara  Duffey 


39 


Kit  Reed's  most  recent  books  are  the  collection  The  Story 
Until  Now:  A Great  Big  Book  of  Stories  (Wesleyan  University 
Press),  a Shirley  Jackson  nominee,  and  her  novel.  Son  of 
Destruction  (Severn  House),  both  of  which  appeared  in  2013. 
Where,  her  next  novel,  will  be  out  this  coming  summer  from 
Tor.  The  book  owes  something  to  this  new  story  of  loss  and  . . . 

MILITARY 

5ECRET5 


Kit  Reed 

A^Aien  the  first  bell  rings,  Mother  Immaculata  marches  us  outside  for  a special 
announcement.  We  have  to  line  up  on  the  playground  according  to  size.  While  the 
taller  kids  file  into  rows  behind  us,  we  shuffle  in  place,  wondering. 

What  is  this,  anyway?  That  “special,”  attached  to  “announcement.”  Will  it  be  a sur- 
prise day  off?  Games  instead  of  times  tables  or  just  ice  cream  at  lunch?  Maybe  it’s  a 
field  trip,  orange  busses  lined  up  to  take  us  all  to  Water  World?  Or  . . . 

My  gut  stutters.  The  biggest  thing. 

Then  Mother  Immaculata  says,  “Everybody  whose  father  isn’t  dead,  take  one  step 
forward,”  and  everybody  in  the  front  row  steps  forward  but  me. 

God,  don’t  make  me  throw  up. 

She  repeats  the  way  nuns  do,  in  case  you  didn’t  get  it.  “Jessie,  I said,  everybody 
whose  father  isn’t  dead. . . .”  Then  she  drops  her  arm  like  a starter’s  flag.  Our  whole 
long  row  marches  off  the  playground  and  up  the  ramp  into  the  gym.  I can’t. 

I have  to  stay  where  I am  with  the  second  row  running  up  my  heels.  There  are 
more  kids  lined  up  behind  them,  row  after  row,  up  to  ninth  grade.  Even  Mother  Im- 
maculata is  impatient,  but  I can’t  move.  She  comes  down  on  me  so  fast  that  her  big 
fat  rosary  rattles.  She  grabs  my  shoulder,  hard,  and  turns  me  around.  “See  that?” 

It’s  a square  of  red  tape  laid  out  on  the  tarmac  next  to  the  bleachers.  “Yes,  Stir.” 

She  gives  me  a push.  “Into  the  box.” 

He  isn’t  dead,  I just  don’t  know  where  he  is,  okay'?  ‘Yes,  Stir.” 

For  a long  time.  I’m  the  only  one  in  the  box. 

When  I was  nine,  the  doorbell  rang  in  the  night.  I went  rnnning  down,  but  West- 
ern Union  was  gone.  There  was  more  in  the  telegram  than  she  ever  told,  but  I didn’t 
know.  That  night  she  said  it  was  just  Uncle  Forrest,  investment  things,  now  go  back 
to  bed.  She  waited  until  morning  to  tell  me  anything  at  all. 

I was  eating  my  cornflakes  in  the  sunshine  when  she  began.  The  Navy  thinks 
Daddy’s  missing  in  action,  she  said.  Don’t  worry,  eat  your  breakfast,  it’s  probably  a 
mistake.  I think  she  said,  it  says  they  just  lost  track  of  him,  that’s  all,  but  she  never 
explained.  Then  she  went  back  inside  herself  and  slammed  all  the  doors.  Daddy  was 
“missing,”  she  told  me  every  time  I asked;  that’s  all  she  said. 


40 


Asimov's 


* * * 

I had  to  wait  until  she  died  to  read  the  telegram.  After  the  funeral  I went  through 
her  things,  which  you  do  when  your  only  mother  dies.  I found  letters  she  wrote  to  the 
Navy  Department  in  the  same  carton;  carbon  copies,  neatly  stored.  When  the  Navy 
declared  he  was  officially  dead,  she  kept  writing.  She  followed  up  on  rumors,  report- 
ed sightings,  fresh  details  from  shipmates  who  had  made  it  home;  for  decades  she 
numbered  reasons  to  believe  MISSING  meant  exactly  that. 

Lost  means  they  will  find  him,  right? 

Right. 

This  is  how  kids  think.  It’s  how  I thought. 

All  the  telegram  said.  Mother  told  me  the  next  day,  was  that  they  didn’t  know 
where  Daddy  was.  She  finally  got  up  and  put  on  lipstick  the  day  after:  she  said. 
Don’t  worry,  they’re  out  looking  for  him  right  now.  I wrote  the  rest  inside  my  head 
every  day  after  that.  His  nice  new  submarine  could  be  silent  running,  he’s  out  there, 
but  it’s  a military  secret.  He’ll  come  back  and  tell  us  all  about  it.  Unless  he’s  on  a 
desert  island  somewhere — accident  at  sea,  he  and  his  crew  are  stamping  S.O.S.  into 
the  sand — unless  they’re  bobbing  on  life  rafts  because  something  hurt  the  sub.  Living 
on  fish  and  rainwater.  People  in  books  did  that,  and  Americans  in  prison  camps  gave 
their  name  and  rank  and  serial  number  and  they  never  gave  in.  Skippers  helped  their 
men  no  matter  what  the  guards  tried  on  them,  they  worked  together  to  escape.  He 
and  his  crew  could  be  tunneling  out  right  now,  crawling  on  their  elbows  through  deep 
sand.  If  not,  we  would  go  in  and  rescue  them  as  soon  as  we  won  the  war. 

Three  weeks  after  we  got  the  telegram,  the  mailman  brought  us  letters  from  Dad- 
dy, and  look.  They  were  postmarked  two  days  after  Mrs.  Simpson  struggled  up  our 
front  steps  with  her  S3Tnpathy  casserole.  First  proof 

He’s  still  out  there. 

It  was  only  Thursday,  so  I made  peanut  butter  and  jelly  on  sal  tines  and  went  to 
school. 

When  you’re  little,  missing  in  action  means  a lot  of  things;  the  one  thing  it  doesn’t 
mean  is  dead. 

They’re  out  there  looking  for  him,  right? 

So  I went  into  Sister  Marcella’s  room  like  always  and  sat  in  my  same  desk  in  the 
back,  between  Teeny  Shail  and  Betsy  Braswell.  We  ate  on  our  same  bench  by  the 
lunchroom  window,  and  I didn’t  talk  about  the  telegram,  so  they  didn’t  have  to  know. 
See,  officers’  children  don’t  cry.  When  he  left  for  California  I felt  awful,  but  officers’ 
children  don’t  cry,  not  even  when  you  can’t  see.  He’s  counting  on  us  to  be  brave.  Be- 
sides, for  all  I knew  they  were  finding  him  that  very  day,  pulling  him  out  of  the  wa- 
ter while  I messed  up  long  division  or  copied  the  names  of  the  state  capitals  off  the 
board.  After  the  last  bell  I ran  all  the  way  home.  It  would  be  over  and  the  kids  would 
never  even  know. 

Mother  would  come  running  out  to  tell  me  they  made  a mistake  and  we’d  have 
waffles  and  cocoa  to  celebrate. 

Instead  it  was  big  old  Mrs.  Simpson  from  across  the  street  with  a casserole;  she 
was  on  our  front  porch,  sniffling.  She  could  hardly  wait  to  say  you  poor  thing,  and 
she  got  upset  because  I wouldn’t  cry  with  her  and  I didn’t  let  her  inside.  I had  to  take 
the  casserole  to  make  her  go  away.  Mother  was  still  in  her  room  with  the  shades 
down.  Don’t  bother  me.  She  didn’t  come  out  for  supper  so  when  it  got  dark  I had 
casserole  and  went  to  bed  because  tomorrow  I had  school. 

Next  day  Sister  Marcella  popped  out  of  the  double  front  doors  at  St.  Paul’s  too  fast. 

Military  Secrets  41 


March  2015 


like  she’d  been  l3dng  in  wait.  She  knelt  down  in  the  middle  of  the  sidewalk  right  in 
front  of  me  so  I couldn’t  get  past.  Kids  started  piling  up  behind.  I guess  she  wanted  to 
hug,  but  this  dry  cleaning  smell  came  up  from  her  habit  along  with  other  smells  so  I 
couldn’t.  Her  face  kept  sliding  around.  Oh,  don’t!  Sister  Marcella,  don’t  cry.  Thank  God 
she  didn’t.  It  was  just  an  almost,  which  was  good.  Then  she  opened  her  mouth  and 
words  fell  out.  “Oh  you  poor  child,  you’ve  lost  your  father,”  like  it  was  something  I did. 

Then  she  pinned  a Miraculous  Medal  on  my  collar  and  told  me  to  be  brave,  right 
out  where  everybody  could  see.  Kids  stared,  all  but  the  ones  that  wouldn’t  look  at  me. 

The  Friday  paper  was  on  the  bulletin  board  so  it  was  the  first  thing  everybody 
saw.  His  picture  was  up  there  on  the  front  page.  It  didn’t  make  it  true,  but  now  every- 
body knew.  I don’t  know  why  it  made  me  feel  guilty.  You  just  do. 

I got  through  the  rest  of  that  year  thinking,  if  one  more  kid  in  our  school  got  the 
telegram,  at  least  there  would  be  two  of  us,  but  that  year,  nobody  did.  Hope  made  me 
savage.  In  fifth  grade,  I thought  at  least  one  transfer  kid  would  come  and  I’d  see  it  in 
his  face.  He’d  walk  into  our  classroom  and  we’d  both  know  and  I wouldn’t  have  to  be 
the  only  one.  I hated  it.  Other  kids’  fathers  got  blown  out  of  the  sky  or  shot  dead  in 
combat  all  the  time  and  our  school  would  have  a Mass  for  them,  but  we  are  not  the 
same.  When  they  tell  your  mother  that  he’s  killed  in  action,  at  least  you  know. 

Missing  is  still  out  there,  no  matter  what  they  say. 

You  miss  him  every  day.  Even  after  you  find  the  telegram  she  kept:  AND  PRE- 
SUMED DEAD  you  play  out  the  possibilities.  You  think,  one  day  he’ll  walk  through 
that  door.  You  keep  thinking  it  long  after  you  look  up  and  do  the  math.  You’re  the  ex- 
act same  age  he  was  when  he  got  lost.  Older,  then  much  older,  but  still  . . . then  you 
consider  what  time  has  done  to  him,  what  he  looks  like  now  and  what  he  needs,  but 
that’s  okay.  You  won’t  care  what  he  looks  like  or  how  hard  it  is,  when  he  walks  in  that 
door  you’ll  be  glad.  You  spin  out  the  years  thinking,  I will  take  care  of  him. 

By  the  time  Mother  Immaculata  was  done  that  day  there  were  three  of  us  stand- 
ing in  the  red  tape  box,  watching  the  ordinary  people  follow  Mother  Immaculata 
back  into  the  building,  row  on  row,  leaving  us  exposed — two  big  kids  from  the  middle 
school:  this  girl  Dorcas  and  Bill,  who’s  tall  as  a tenth  grader,  and  me. 

At  the  top  of  the  ramp  Mother  Immaculata  sees  the  last  row  up  the  ramp  and  back 
into  regular  life  inside.  Then  she  turns  and  gives  us  a look.  We  shuffle,  not  exactly 
looking  at  each  other,  frightened  and  excited — You,  too! — and  ashamed  because 
we’re  both  girls  but  we’re  nothing  alike,  gaudy  Dorcas  with  your  uniform  skirt  rolled 
way  up  above  your  knees. 

No.  We  are  alike,  we  just  didn’t  know. 

Mother  Immaculata  doesn’t  say  our  names,  but  we  can  feel  her  eyes  on  us.  We 
have  our  orders.  “You  wait.” 

Either  the  tarmac  grows  or  we  shrink. 

When  the  doors  shut  on  the  mother  superior  her  building  goes  away,  leaving  us 
three  alone  on  the  playground.  For  reasons.  There’s  nothing  in  sight  to  remind  us 
where  we  are,  which  town  in  what  state,  or  even  what  country.  There’s  just  us  three 
eddying  on  the  tarmac,  and  at  the  far  end  of  the  playground,  a bus.  Did  that  bus  pull 
up  while  we  were  watching  Mother  Immaculata  direct  traffic  away  from  us,  or  has  it 
been  out  here  the  whole  time? 

It’s  a grey  steel  cylinder  with  darkened  windows,  sleek  as  a bullet  and  all  of  a 
piece,  everything  tightly  sealed  until  we’re  close  enough.  Odd:  it  hasn’t  moved.  Nei- 
ther have  we,  but  here  it  is.  The  doors  pop  open. 

It’s  for  us. 

We  climb  on  board,  in  hopes. 

The  doors  whish  shut  on  our  heels  and  the  motor  starts  before  we  can  make  it  up 

42  Kit  Reed 


Asimov's 

the  steps,  but  you  get  used  to  that.  When  you’re  a kid  you  can’t  ask  for  explanations. 
You  do  as  you’re  told. 

The  inside  of  the  bus  is  even  darker  than  the  steely  shell.  As  we  come  up  the  steps 
Dorcas  tries,  “Hello?”  Nobody  speaks.  We  blunder  down  the  aisle  all  pardon  me,  ex- 
cuse me,  looking  for  seats.  Nobody  moves,  even  when  Bill  fake-loses  his  balance  and 
bumps  them  so  he  can  fake-apologize. 

We  go  along  in  the  dark,  following  beads  of  light  in  the  floor  to  our  seats  in  the 
very  back  row.  It’s  so  dark  in  here  that  we  can’t  make  out  who  the  others  are,  only 
that  they’re  kids  and  they  won’t  talk  to  us.  Whether  they’re  asleep  or  drugged  or  just 
pretending  is  never  clear.  We’ll  never  find  out  where  these  kids  were  or  what  they 
were  doing  when  they  got  picked  up  or  why  they  were  picked  up  in  the  first  place  or 
why  we’re  all  in  here  together,  although  I can  guess.  That’s  okay,  I think  as  we  stum- 
ble into  the  back  row,  but  I hate  that  that  it  took  us  forever  to  get  here,  and  these  are 
the  last  seats  in  the  bus. 

And  that  there  are  so  many  people  in  here.  From  the  outside  the  bus  doesn’t  look  that 
big,  but  there’s  no  bus  driver  to  steer  by,  no  teacher  herding  us,  nobody  to  ask.  When  you 
grow  up  without  explanations,  you  don’t  ask.  You  keep  doing  what  you  have  to  do. 

As  if  he  is  watching.  In  hopes. 

Days  go  by,  at  least  I think  it’s  been  days.  Food  happens,  I think,  but  I can’t  know  if 
it  really  does.  Sometimes  the  bus  fills  with  the  smell  of  food,  people  farting,  shifting 
in  all  the  rows  ahead  of  us,  but  the  only  ones  I hear  talking  are  Dorcas  and  Bill  and 
me,  and  only  a little  bit.  It’s  questions,  like  why  they  won’t  talk  to  us  and  when  is  the 
food,  although  we  never  get  hungry.  The  bathrooms  are  right  across  the  aisle  from 
us,  but  nobody  comes  and  I don’t  have  to  go. 

As  we  ride  along  we  wonder,  but  we  don’t  really  want  to  know.  It’s  enough  to  be 
running  along  ahead  of  the  sad  outcasts  we  were  in  the  last  place.  Every  few  hours 
or  days  Bill  or  Dorcas  will  ask  where  this  thing  is  going  and  we  name  places  we  used 
to  live  and  places  we  want  to  see,  just  not  the  one  we  really  care  about,  in  part  be- 
cause we  don’t  know  exactly  where  that  is.  We  don’t  ask  each  other  who  we’re  look- 
ing for  because  that’s  too  personal,  but  we  all  know  why  we’re  here. 

All  the  regular  kids  went  back  into  the  building  that  day,  everybody  but  us.  I think 
the  war  orphans  left  that  place  shortly  after  the  telegram  came  to  their  house,  un- 
less the  service  sent  somebody  to  break  the  news.  Poor  kids,  their  fathers  got  killed, 
this  won’t  make  it  better  but  at  least  they  know.  And  the  rest?  Ordinary,  so  they  be- 
long at  St.  Paul’s.  His  job  was  essential  to  the  war  effort  on  the  home  front  or  he  was 
too  sick  to  serve;  either  way  he  didn’t  have  to  go.  Either  he  never  went  to  war,  or  it 
ended  and  he  came  home,  we  don’t  know. 

I know  that  they  made  Dorcas  and  Bill  and  me  wait  in  the  red  tape  box  because 
we  don’t  belong  in  that  school. 

There  is  no  real  place  for  us.  Mother  Immaculata  thought  one  thing,  but  we  know 
another.  Not  dead. 

They  just  don’t  know  where  he  is,  is  all. 

So  here  we  are  parked  side  by  side  by  side  in  the  back  row  of  the  bus,  sitting  here 
in  the  dark  and  it’s  nothing  we  did,  it’s  who  we  are.  Then  the  silence  gets  too  heavy 
and  we  talk.  Or  I think  we  do. 

Bill  starts.  “So  where  were  all  the  kids  whose  fathers  did  get  killed?” 

“What?” 

‘You  know,  back  on  the  playground.” 

It  comes  out  of  Dorcas  in  a wail.  “I  don’t  know,  I don’t  know.” 

Military  Secrets 


43 


March  2015 


I do.  “They  don’t  go  to  our  school.” 

“Oh.” 

Bill  pushes:  “Is  that  better  or  worse  than  this?” 

Dorcas  is  quick.  “Oh,  it’s  much  worse.” 

Not  me:  “I  don’t  know,  I don’t  know.” 

Change  the  subject,  Jessie.  Change  it  fast,  hut  don’t  ask  the  next  question.  It’s  too 
personal.  Never  ask  us  where  we  were  when  we  got  the  telegram. 

Don’t  make  us  tell  you  what  that  was  like. 

I ask  the  question  that  it’s  okay  to  ask.  “Where  did  they  say  he  was  when  it  happened?” 

“Chosin.”  It  comes  out  of  Bill  like  a cough. 

Dorcas  whips  her  head  around,  all  puzzled.  “What’s  that?” 

“You  don’t  know?” 

I think,  but  do  not  tell  her.  Different  war. 

Bill  turns  to  me.  ‘Yours?” 

“Coral  Sea.” 

“Where  was  yours?” 

Dorcas  finally  gets  it.  “Manila  Bay.” 

We  all  do.  Bill  stands  up  and  yells  at  the  backs  of  a hundred  heads  on  the  unmoved, 
unmoving  bodies  slouched  in  seats  ahead  of  us  because  they  got  on  the  bus  before  we 
did.  He  yells  loud  enough  to  reach  everybody  in  every  row  all  the  way  to  the  front  of 
the  bus  and  Mother  Immaculata  and  all  those  ordinary  kids  back  at  our  old  school. 

Shouting,  “Where  did  they  tell  you  they  lost  him?” 

And  the  answers  come  from  every  row,  all  the  way  to  the  front  of  the  bus.  When 
they  do,  it  is  stupendous. 

“Tikrit,”  and  “Manassas,”  “Da  Nang,”  “Belleau  Woods,”  “Benghazi,”  “Agadir  . . .” 

The  names  of  all  the  old  wars  and  certain  new  ones  and  wars  we  haven’t  heard  of 
yet  come  out  in  a blast,  cries  that  go  on  and  on,  as  though  whatever  the  nail  is.  Bill 
hit  it  on  the  head. 

For  the  first  time  the  bus  stops. 

Ahead  of  us,  the  others  cough  and  shift  in  their  seats,  embarrassed.  Reassembling 
themselves.  There’s  the  confused  stir  of  someone  standing,  way  up  there  in  the  front 
of  the  bus,  followed  by  the  doors  whishing  open,  the  hush  of  footsteps  stifled  as  the 
thoughtful  person  or  people  hurry  down  and  out.  Then  the  doors  whish  shut  and 
clamp  tight  so  we  can  shove  off 

In  the  hack  row  the  three  of  us  scramble  to  change  places,  shuffling  ourselves  like  a 
deck  of  cards  so  we  can  take  turns  craning  at  the  window,  hut  there’s  nothing  to  see.  It 
looks  darker  out  there  than  it  is  in  here.  The  bus  is  moving  again,  everything  dark  and 
everybody  silent,  sending  the  three  of  us  back  into  our  own  heads  where  we  sit,  curled 
up  tight  around  our  hopes.  The  bus  stops  again,  long  enough  for  someone  new  to  get 
out.  It’s  probably  time  for  the  third  row  to  line  up  at  the  exit,  hut  at  the  next  stop,  no- 
body leaves.  I don’t  hear  that  gasp  the  doors  make  when  they  whish  open,  or  the  rush 
of  somebody  pounding  down  the  steps,  which  is  a puzzle.  At  least  nobody  gets  on. 

At  the  next  stop  so  many  people  get  off  that  I can’t  count  them  and  all  my  blood 
backs  up  in  my  head:  Me  next,  me,  me! 

Dozens  get  off  and  nobody  comes  back.  A good  thing,  I tell  myself  It  could  mean  . . . 

Oh,  Jessie.  Don’t. 

But  the  next  time  we  stop  kids  seem  to  get  off  in  no  particular  order,  from  the  front 
of  the  bus,  the  middle  of  the  hus,  anywhere  in  the  hus;  they  scatter  before  the  doors 
clamp  shut  on  their  heels  while  the  rest  of  us  ride  on,  and  I begin  to  think  . . . 

I don’t  want  to  think. 

Bill  says  it.  “We’re  never  getting  off  this  fucking  bus.” 

If  John  Paul  Jones  had  a wife  and  kids  that  he  left  behind  to  fight  for  whatever;  if 

44  Kit  Reed 


Asimov's 


he  never  came  back,  they’re  probably  sitting  up  there  in  the  dark  somewhere  near 
the  front  of  our  bus.  Waiting.  We  aren’t  all  the  same  age,  in  fact  we’re  nothing  alike. 
We  are  none  of  us  the  same  person.  What  we  are  is  people  whose  fathers  got  lost  in 
some  war,  frozen  at  the  age  we  were  when  we  first  heard.  It  won’t  matter  when  this 
happened  to  us  or  which  war,  the  only  thing  that  matters  is,  lost  can  mean  anything. 
No  matter  how  long  you  live  or  what  they  tell  you  later,  he’s  still  out  there  and — you 
mull  the  unfinished  sentence  as  you  run  on,  listening  for  the  rest.  O 


They  spin,  measure,  and  cut  the  threads 
Athena  weaves  to  fabric. 

But  they  watched  Penelope 
Unweave  by  night 

The  patterns  she  had  woven  in  the  day 
So  that  the  loom  never  filled. 

Since  then,  sometimes  Clotho  picks  apart 
The  twist  of  the  thread 
And  balls  it  up  again 
To  take  its  place  in  chaos 
On  the  spindle 

Or  Lachesis  keeps  losing  count 

Of  how  many  times  she's  held  and  folded  off 

The  length  from  shoulder  to  her  fingertips. 

Atropos  has  no  recourse. 

Cut  thread  is  cut. 

All  Death  can  do  to  be  without 
Her  power  of  ending 

Is  to  grab  the  spindle 

By  its  sharp  and  stabbing  end 

And  let  the  thorns  grow  up  around  the  castle 

Death  lies  sleeping,  then. 

Atropos  dreams  of  lives 
Turning  on  the  wheel. 

— Ruth  Berman 


45 


Greg  Bosserfs  most  recent  story  in  Asimov's,  "Bloom" 
(December  2013),  was  a finalist  for  the  Theodore  Sturgeon 
Memorial  Award,  and  his  story  "The  Telling"  won  the  2013 
World  Fantasy  Award  for  Short  Fiction.  Greg  wrangles  space- 
ships and  superheroes  at  his  day  job  at  Industrial  Light  & Magic 
in  the  San  Francisco.  His  sixth  story  for  us  was  originally  drafted 
at  the  2010  Clarion  Writer's  Workshop;  some  of  the  inspiration 
came  from  mutual  trust  under  pressure  evident  in  his  fellow 
students  and  instructors  there,  not  to  mention  a few  late  nights 
of  tall  tales  and  emptied  bottles.  Nothing  as  wild  or  dangerous, 
though,  as  the  crew  of  the  Tethys  and  their  game  of  . . . 


TWELVE 
AND  TAG 


Gregory  Norman  Bossert 

‘‘  T 

. . . ■ welve  and  Tag,”  we  shouted,  and  Cheung  added,  “You  two  know  it?” 

Zandt  lowered  his  brows  and  frowned. 

Adra  shook  her  head,  looked  around  at  us.  She  did  that,  searching  faces  for  clues 
about  what  was  expected  of  her.  “You  mean  tee-ay-gee  like  T-complete  Associative 
Gestalt?  Crew’s  got  the  sort  of  money  for  neural  backup?”  she  asked. 

Cheung  said,  “Not  tech.  It’s  a bar  game.  A slam,  a rap.” 

Zandt’s  brows  lowered  further  over  pale  eyes. 

“An  improvised  impression.  And  then  you  tell  stories,  the  worst  thing,  stupidest 
thing,  most  painful  thing  you’ve  ever  done.” 

“Or  kindest,”  added  Nava,  back  from  the  bar  with  drinks  balanced  in  both  hands. 
And  to  our  chorus  of  complaints,  “That’s  the  way  we  do  it — ” 

“ — on  Mars,”  we  shouted,  the  crew  of  the  Tethys.  All  but  Adra  and  Zandt.  They 
weren’t  really  crew  yet,  not  until  this  was  done. 

“This  ain’t  Mars,”  Orit  said,  and  bounced  her  head  off  the  window  behind  her,  lay- 
ers of  clear  composite  and  beyond  it  the  flat  flat  beige  of  Europa,  Jupiter’s  fat  belly 
propped  on  the  horizon. 

“Something  we  do,”  Perelman  rumbled. 

“Breaks  the  ice,”  Orit  said,  to  groans.  All  we  did  was  break  the  ice,  down  into  the 
ocean  that  lay  underneath  Europa’s  surface. 

“It’s  not  just  ice  that  breaks,”  Cheung  said,  “doing  what  we  do.”  His  fingers  mimed 
something  snapping.  “It’s  equipment,  people,  whole  ships  sometimes.  Got  to  know  each 
other.” 


46 


Asimov's 


“Gotta  trust,”  Nava  said.  She  was  harpoonist,  which  these  days  meant  piloting  a 
remote  vehicle  on  a two-kilometer  cable,  and,  as  if  to  make  up  for  that,  ever3dhing 
about  her  was  sharp.  She  gave  Adra  a sharp  smile  now,  then  flicked  it  at  Zandt. 

Adra  was  second-shift  pilot,  had  been  for  two  months.  Lean  and  grey,  swept-back 
eyes  so  dark  they  seemed  opaque,  or  empty.  This  was  her  first  shore  leave  with  us; 
she’d  come  in  mid-mission  after  her  predecessor  had  lost  an  arm  in  a blowout. 

Our  assayer  had  just  lost  his  nerve  after  that.  That’s  the  position  Zandt  had  recent- 
ly dropped  into.  Literally:  he’d  landed  in-system  that  morning  from  who-knew-where, 
resume  in  hand,  “ship  = Tethys”  scrawled  in  the  margin.  He  hung  over  the  table  like 
Jupiter  over  the  surface  out  the  window,  blond  hair  swept  back  onto  broad  shoulders, 
something  in  the  hard  lines  of  his  face  keeping  him  from  easy  handsomeness. 

Adra  and  Zandt  were  already  signed  by  the  captain,  but  contracts  could  be  re- 
voked or  applicants  left  stranded  if  the  crew  decided  against  the  hire.  That’s  why  we 
were  here. 

We?  The  crew.  Perelman  was  mate,  solid,  methodical,  the  wall  between  the  captain 
and  the  rest.  He  left  the  running  of  things  to  Cheung,  he’s  navigator,  and  Yu,  she’s 
main-shift  pilot.  Even  the  captain  deferred  to  those  two.  Cheung,  he  was  always  in 
motion,  always  quick  to  find  the  right  words.  Yu  was  always  still,  always  looking  Out 
into  the  deep,  yet  somehow  saw  ever3d,hing  anyway. 

Orit  was  cook;  that’s  not  a junior  role,  not  on  a ship  that  spends  six  months  at  a 
time  under  the  ice.  She  was  likely  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  any  trouble  or  atop  another 
crewmember,  but  she  always  cleaned  up  her  own  messes. 

Who  else?  Nava  you  already  know.  Patel  was  there,  engineer,  and  most  of  the 
hands:  Keita  and  Barb,  Heighten  and  Sintra.  We  filled  all  the  spots  around  the  one 
long,  battered  table,  driving  the  other  patrons  into  the  corners  or  up  to  the  bar.  It 
was  all  deep-ocean  crew  in  this  place.  There  were  other  bars  for  the  spacers,  admin- 
istrators, tourists,  and  if  any  of  these  wandered  in  here,  they’d  be  driven  out  soon 
enough  by  the  noise  and  the  roughhousing  and  the  smell  that  clung  of  Europa’s 
strange  secret  ocean. 

That  ocean  was  thick:  with  alien  viruses,  with  complex  hydrocarbons  that  trig- 
gered fatal  autoimmune  reactions,  with  larger  creatures  that  fed  on  the  sludge,  and 
on  each  other,  and  on  us.  We  scooped  the  sludge,  trapped  the  creatures,  sold  the  lot  to 
brokers  who  sold  in  turn  to  the  universities  and  corporations.  The  Outer  System  was 
one  big  boomtown,  bigger  than  the  whole  damn  Inner  System  by  orders  of  magni- 
tude, by  any  metric. 

“So  we  tell  a story  . . .”  Adra  said. 

“Two  stories,”  Yu  said,  “one  of  them  true,  one  of  them  false.” 

“And  then  we  go  around  the  table  and  vote  on  which  was  the  lie.” 

“A  bet?”  Zandt  said. 

“A  confirmation,”  Cheung  said. 

Perelman  nodded,  rumbled  agreement. 

“Though  if  we  guess  right,  you  buy  a round,”  Orit  added. 

Cheung  said,  “I’ll  go  first,  so  you  ^ow  how  it  goes.”  He  laced  his  fingers  together, 
closed  his  eyes,  a beat,  opened  eyes  and  hands,  took  a breath.  No  Twelve  and  Tag  for 
Cheung;  the  crew  knew  him  too  well.  But  if  there  had  been,  the  tag  would  be  “flight.” 
Fragile  bones  spread  under  his  face  like  bird’s  wings,  bird’s  eyes,  too,  black  and  al- 
ways flitting,  fingers  light  and  fast  on  the  ship  consoles,  on  the  table  here.  Hard  to 
imagine  him  anywhere  but  Out,  doing  anything  but  Nav,  but  he’d  been  a singer  back 
on  Earth.  The  crew  knew  his  stories. 

“Stupidest,  then,”  Cheung  started.  “I  was  with  the  captain  out  at  Saturn,  a dozen 
years  ago.  Ice  mining  in  the  Rings.  I was  young,  thought  I knew  the  ship,  thought  I 

Twelve  and  Tag 


47 


March  2015 


knew  the  system.  So,  we  found  a vein  heavy  with  tholins.”  A fleeting  glance  up  at 
Zandt,  who  gave  a slow  nod. 

“Natural  organics,  worth  their  weight  in  the  Outer  System  for  hydroponics,  indus- 
try,” Zandt  said. 

Cheung  nodded  back.  “We  didn’t  have  processing  facilities  onship.  Ice  mining,  you 
just  grab  hold  of  a piece,  push  it  out  to  a moon  or  a station.  Tholins,  they’re  dark, 
easy  to  see  in  the  ice.  If  we  had  pulled  up  to  Titan  station  with  a twenty  tonne  chunk 
of  that,  the  market  would  have  been  ready  for  us.  They’d  set  a price  before  we  even 
docked,  lose  us  20  percent,  maybe  more.  So  I had  the  idea  to  cut  across  to  the  re- 
search station  around  Enceladus,  process  there,  ship  the  tholins  back  to  Titan  in 
tanks,  hit  the  market  and  get  out  before  they  knew  the  score. 

“Enceladus  was  far  side  of  Saturn  so  we  cut  across  the  Rings,  close  above  the 
clouds,  serious  v,  flung  ourselves  out  the  far  side. 

“We  hit  something  over  the  B Ring  that  didn’t  show  on  sensors,  probably  just  a 
dense  pocket  of  dust,  but  we  were  moving  fast.  All  I knew  was,  one  minute  I was 
watching  the  monitors,  green  down  the  board,  and  then  woosh  half  the  ship  was 
gone.  Main  drivers,  cargo.  Seven  crew.  Left  us  in  a spin  that  I couldn’t  kill  with  the 
thrusters  I had  left.  Left  us  on  a course  that  didn’t  go  anywhere  except  Out.” 

Orit  shivered,  and  Yu  got  that  far-gone  look  she  got,  straight  through  the  wall  and 
into  the  deep. 

“Long  range  corns  were  gone.  All  we  could  do  was  hope  Enceladus  picked  up  our 
beacon,  had  someone  in-station  fast  enough  to  catch  us.  Four  days  of  that  spin.  Spin 
wouldn’t  let  you  eat,  wouldn’t  let  you  sleep  for  more  than  a few  minutes  before  you’d 
wake  up,  convinced  you  were  falling.  All  we  could  do  was  watch  the  view,  Saturn, 
Rings,  stars,  Saturn,  Rings,  stars.  The  captain  and  I and  the  one  remaining  crewmem- 
ber: T’m  not  backed  up.  I’ll  be  lost,’  she  kept  saying,  round  and  round,  until  we  had  to 
sedate  her. 

“Thing  was,  I was  backed  up.  A full  T.A.G.  back  on  Earth,  nothing  to  be  scared  of, 
nothing  to  lose.  I wasn’t  scared,  I was  furious.  I hadn’t  had  an  update  since  I’d  gotten  to 
the  Outer  System.  If  I died  and  they  brought  me  back.  I’d  lose  a year.  I’d  lose  those  four 
days  spinning  across  the  Rings.  And  I couldn’t  stand  the  idea  of  losing  that  view.” 

Cheung’s  lips  twitched,  a quick  humorless  grin. 

“We’ll  always  want  more  than  the  tech  can  give  us.  And  stupid  masquerading  as 
clever;  that’s  the  worst  kind.” 

Adra  looked  around  the  table,  looking  for  a hint  from  the  crew.  Some  eyes  met 
hers,  some  looked  up  at  the  low  ceiling,  sheet  steel  and  pitted  with  rust,  or  out 
through  the  plexi  at  Jupiter. 

“If  you’re  a restored  copy,  how  do  you  know  all  this?”  she  asked,  like  an  accusation. 

Cheung  shrugged.  “Enceladus  Station  had  been  tracking  us  the  entire  time,  got  a 
tug  out  in  time  to  snare  us.  That’s  how  the  captain  and  I got  into  under-ice  work, 
stuck  on  Enceladus  without  a ship.  But  the  oceans  here  on  Europa  were  deeper.”  He 
took  a sip,  swallowed,  and  started  his  second  story. 

“A  triangle  is  the  strongest  shape.  Fact.  People  have  known  it  for  a long  time, 
though  it  took  Fuller  back  in  the  twentieth  century  to  explain  how  that  fact  unfolds 
across  what  we  know. 

“I  was  twenty.  Grad  school  in  Hong  Kong.  That  was  right  after  the  referendum,  the 
Second  Independence,  the  first  successful  neural-nano  backups,  and  HK  was  the 
heart  of  everything  that  was  . . . ever3rthing.  I was  singing  all  night,  stud3dng  all  day, 
drinking  and  drugging  and  dragging  all  night  and  day,  no  stop,  no  sleep.  Had  a 
boyfriend.  Grant,  kept  me  out  of  the  worst  of  the  trouble.  Tall,  always  stooped  over 

Gregory  Norman  Bossert 


48 


Asimov's 


like  he  was  looking  for  something  he’d  dropped.  Couldn’t  keep  his  glasses  on 
straight.  He  was  in  the  planetary  navigation  program  with  me,  brilliant  at  it.” 

Cheung  turned  his  head,  looked  out  across  Orit  and  the  window  and  the  plains  to 
Jupiter,  a long  quiet  look  for  him. 

“He  was  gentle  in  bed.  Generous.  Never  minded  my  nights  out,  even  though  the 
nights  were  getting  longer.  Morning  was  our  time.  We’d  tell  each  other  that  if  we  could 
ever  afford  to  get  T.A.G.ed,  we’d  just  record  one  of  those  mornings  and  live  in  it  forever. 

“I  was  singing  fade,  it’d  been  an  underground  thing  in  Macau  but  suddenly  HK 
was  the  right  place,  right  time,  and  I was  big.  Advertising  deals,  guest  spots  on  the 
telenovelas,  corporate  sponsorship  from  VanZ.  I had  company  lawyers  circling  me 
like  mad  moons:  sing  here,  be  seen  there,  wear  this,  drink  that,  an  endless  supply  of 
drugs,  nano,  people.  Anything  to  keep  me  busy,  anything  to  keep  me  there  making 
money  for  them. 

“So  I got  my  own  lawyer.  Leslie.  She  was  from  Singapore.  Tiny.  Quiet.  You’d  be  sit- 
ting in  a room,  forget  she  was  there,  and  then  she’d  reach  a hand  out,  touch  your 
shoulder.  Should  have  been  a shock,  but  it  was  like  . . .” 

Cheung’s  fingers  fluttered  downward. 

“. . . rain  falling,  when  you  hadn’t  realized  you  were  hot  and  dry. 

“Grant  and  Leslie,  they  started  meeting  evenings,  talking,  about  me,  mostly,  and 
what  I was  in,  and  how  to  get  me  out  of  it.  One  day,  Leslie  was  still  there  when  I got 
home  in  the  morning. 

“Next  five  months  . . .” 

His  hands  settled  to  the  table. 

“The  next  five  months  were  perfect.  Leslie  broke  deals,  made  new  ones;  suddenly  I 
was  getting  paid  for  singing,  money  in  the  bank.  Grant  even  came  to  the  clubs  to  see 
me  sing.  He’d  never  risked  the  crowd  on  his  own.  The  two  of  them  would  find  a table 
near  the  front,  and  afterward  I’d  sit  down  with  them,  with  no  desire  for  anything, 
anyone,  anywhere  else.” 

Adra  leaned  in,  whispered  to  Nava,  “Is  this  ‘kindest  thing’?  Because  he  already 
took ‘stupid.’” 

Nava  put  a finger  to  her  lips.  Cheung  gave  Adra  a glance.  His  fingers  danced 
around  the  edge  of  his  mug. 

“Five  months,”  he  continued,  “and  then  Grant  and  I had  our  degrees.  Nav  certified, 
from  UHK,  any  ship  in  the  System  would  take  us  on.  But  Grant  was  talking  about  a 
PhD,  teaching  at  the  university.  I’d  sing,  he  said,  and  Leslie  would  make  enough 
money  to  support  the  three  of  us,  enough  to  get  us  T.A.G.ed.  Nano-neural  backups 
had  only  hit  the  market  a couple  of  years  before,  but  the  startups  were  booming  in 
HK  and  suddenly  you  only  had  to  be  filthy  rich  to  get  T.A.G.ed.  Those  VanZ  bill- 
boards were  everywhere;  beautiful  people  doing  beautiful  things  and  then  the  image 
would  freeze  with  one  word  splashed  across  it:  Forever.  That  was  before  the  hack  on 
the  Great  Basin  longstore,  no  reason  to  doubt  that  ‘Forever.’” 

“I  didn’t  sleep  for  two  nights  after  our  certifications  came  through  from  the  univer- 
sity. I walked,  mostly,  around  and  around  the  block.  The  HK  night  is  too  bright  for 
stars  and  ships  and  moons,  but  I’d  spent  five  years  learning  to  do  navigation  in  my 
head.  No  matter  how  I did  the  math,  the  course  just  led  around  that  block  again. 
‘Forever.’ 

“So  I transferred  all  the  money  I had  to  a bank  on  Mars.  Took  a shuttle  up  to  orbit 
the  next  morning.  When  I left  them,  they  were  still  asleep,  Leslie  laid  perfectly 
straight  as  always.  Grant  sprawled  diagonal,  their  heads  together  on  the  pillow. 

“Triangles.  Too  perfect.  Too  strong  for  me.  I had  to  fly  then,  go  Out,  or  never  leave.” 

He  looked  at  Adra.  “So,  worst  thing.” 


Twelve  and  Tag 


49 


March  2015 


Adra  said,  “You’ve  made  it  out  this  far,  and  Jupiter  the  sharp  edge  of  things  these 
days,  and  that’s  the  worst  you’ve  done?  I don’t  believe  it.  Regret  for  the  view,  I buy, 
but  not  for  the  leaving.  The  first  story  is  the  true  one.”  She  looked  around  at  the 
crew.  Nava  smiled,  sharp  teeth  and  narrow  eyes. 

Yu  held  her  hands  up,  palms  out.  “We’ve  heard  his  stories.” 

Perelman  said,  “It’s  your  round,  just  the  two  of  you.”  And  looked  at  Zandt. 

Who  bit  his  lip  and  looked  at  the  table,  where  Cheung’s  fingers  had  lit  amongst 
the  glasses.  “You  wouldn’t  be  the  first  to  see  the  trap  in  neuro-nano  memories,”  he 
said,  a deep  voice,  not  Perelman’s  rumble,  higher  pitched  but  full,  like  the  pedal  tone 
on  an  organ.  “Wouldn’t  be  the  first  to  hope  the  Out  offered  more.  An3rway  . . .”  He 
looked  up,  caught  Cheung’s  gaze  in  his  own.  “This  crew  wouldn’t  take  you  if  you’d 
lost  the  captain  a ship.  First  one’s  the  lie.” 

Claps  and  stomps,  and  Patel  slapped  Zandt  on  the  shoulder;  might  as  well  have 
slapped  a stone.  Adra’s  face  fell  flat,  not  so  much  a frown  as  indifference. 

“Truth,”  Yu  said.  “The  first  story?  That’s  mine.  I was  the  surviving  crewmember.  It 
was  the  navigator  who  lost  it,  though,  terrified  about  being  restored  from  backup 
and  losing  those  years,  that  view.  We  didn’t  sedate  her;  she  took  the  drugs  herself,  all 
of  them,  two  days  before  the  tug  caught  us.  Not  that  I wouldn’t  have  helped  her  if  I’d 
known.  She  was  more  worried  about  losing  her  memories  than  about  losing  seven  crew, 
the  arrogant  shit.”  Yu  was  staring  Out,  straight  through  Adra,  breathless,  still.  “Cap- 
tain and  I were  the  only  ones  left  then,  three  months  on  Enceladus,  stumbling  from 
bar  to  bar,  still  spinning,  until  we  met  Cheung  and  he  took  us  down  under  the  ice.” 

Cheung’s  fingers  brushed  the  top  of  Yu’s  hand,  paused  for  a beat. 

Yu  took  a breath  then.  “I  was  T.A.G.ed  too,”  she  said.  “Would  have  been  glad  to  lose 
those  months,  get  to  rediscover  the  Outer  system  again,  see  those  views  again  for  the 
first  time.”  She  shrugged,  a millimeter  motion  against  the  ice  out  the  window. 
“Missed  that  chance.  My  backup  was  at  Great  Basin.  All  gone  now.” 

Zandt  pushed  himself  up  from  the  table.  His  stick  was  leaning  against  the  wall 
under  the  window;  when  he  reached  for  it,  it  toppled  away  from  him,  clashed  to  the 
floor.  Yu  leaned  down,  picked  it  up,  but  Zandt  had  already  turned  to  limp  toward 
the  toilet. 

Cheung  took  the  stick  from  Yu.  It  was  proportioned  to  Zandt,  long,  thick,  dark 
wood  with  a hint  of  grain.  The  head  was  massive,  a dragon  caught  mid-snarl  in 
stainless  steel.  Grit  leaned  across  Adra,  stuck  her  finger  into  the  dragon’s  mouth. 
“Shit!”  she  said,  and  sucked  a drop  of  blood. 

Nava  laughed.  “Always  got  to  stick  it  into  everything.  Grit,  don’t  you?” 

Grit  leered  around  her  mouthful  of  finger. 

Cheung  got  up,  set  the  stick  by  Zandt’s  chair;  it  settled  against  the  window  edge 
with  a thud.  Cheung  tapped  Yu  on  the  shoulder,  and  they  went  up  to  the  bar. 

“So.  Adra,”  Cheung  said. 

Adra  looked  back  at  him  over  the  rim  of  her  glass,  drained  it.  “So,”  she  said,  gave 
that  same  flat  look  to  the  rest  of  the  crew. 

“Twelve  and  Tag,”  Perelman  said,  his  checklist  voice,  and  we  sat  up,  quieted  down. 
A round  of  looks,  at  each  other  and  back  to  her. 

Cheung  said,  “It  goes  like  this.  Someone  throws  out  an  adjective,  someone  match- 
es with  a noun,  starts  with  the  same  sound,  or  at  least  hits  it  somewhere.  Six  pairs, 
then  someone  sums  it  up  with  the  tag,  one  word.  It’s  all  about  impressions.” 

“Gotta  be  fast,”  Nava  said. 

“Gotta  be  true,”  Perelman  grumbled.  “Who’s  first?” 

Grit  said,  “I  got  it.”  A pause,  an  arm  up,  fingers  spread — look  at  me,  that  was 
Grit — and  then  she  slapped  the  table  and  started  it  round: 


50 


Gregory  Norman  Bossert 


Asimov's 


“Lank,” 

Barb:  “Leg,  Tart,” 

Sintra:  “Tongue,  Fast”  (“yeah,  you  wish!”) 

Patel:  “Flat”  (doubtful  “huh”  from  Yu),  “Trim,” 

Nava:  “Teat,  Sharp”  (“she  always  says  ‘sharp’”) 

Cheung:  “Gash”  (laughs,  a whistle  from  Grit),  “Sheer,” 

Perelman:  “Razor,” 

And  Yu  tagged  it  with:  “Lash.” 


Adra  followed  the  tag  around  the  table,  from  face  to  face  with  that  blank  stare  she 
got,  as  if  trying  to  interpret  some  inexplicable  foreign  phrase,  ended  on  Yu  for  a long 
while  but  Yu’s  face  gave  her  nothing  but  Yu’s  own  long  look.  Finally  she  shrugged, 
looked  into  Zandt’s  heavy  golden  frown  instead. 

She  said,  “Before  I came  on  the  Tethys,  I was  pilot  on  the  Laelaps  out  of  Conamara. 
She’s  not  a hunter  like  Tethys,  she’s  a mapper,  nine-tenths  sonar  systems  and  a sin- 
gle-shift crew,  dull  dull  work.  We  were  under  the  ice — ” 

“No,”  Cheung  said. 

Adra  froze,  lips  pulled  thin  against  the  sibilant  “ice,”  chin  tucked  into  her  shoulder 
to  face  Cheung,  who  was  sat  next  to  her. 

“No  stories  set  under  the  ice,”  Cheung  said. 

“Not  a good  idea  to  lie  about  what  goes  on  under  the  ice,  not  in  this  bar,”  Nava  said, 
one  eyebrow  raised,  one  pointed  nail  flicking — ting — against  her  glass. 

“And  we  already  know  the  truth  of  it,”  someone  said  softly. 

Adra  shut  her  eyes,  rolled  them  under  her  lids,  opened  them  again  on  Cheung. 

“Telenovelas,  huh?”  she  said.  “A  story  about  telenovelas,  that  okay?  Or  are  there 
more  rules  you  haven’t  mentioned?” 

The  comers  of  Cheung’s  lips  quirked  up. 

“Sure,”  Nava  said. 

“That’s  fine,”  Yu  clarified. 

“Telenovelas,  then,  and  the  worst  thing  I ever  did.”  Adra  said.  “Passing  someone 
else’s  weakness  off  as  my  own. 

“I  used  to  play  piano.  I started  when  I was  two,  so  in  the  earliest  memories  I have 
now,  I was  already  playing  piano,  and  I was  already  good.  A prodigy.  There  were 
many  prodigies  in  Taipei,  many  piano  prodigies,  many  little  girl  piano  prodigies.  We 
all  performed  in  our  little  dresses  with  little  bows  in  our  hair,  an  endless  chain  of 
competitions,  and  when  we  weren’t  performing,  we  were  practicing,  or  taking 
lessons,  or  reviewing  video  of  our  last  recital,  while  she  took  apart  my  pla3dng,  note 
by  note.” 

Adra  lifted  her  glass;  it  was  empty.  Yu  filled  it  from  her  own  bottle,  local  algae  beer, 
pale  green  and  bitter.  Adra  downed  it  and  grimaced. 

“My  teacher,  I mean.  Cold-hearted  bitch.  Always  pushing  me,  never  satisfied.  Not 
just  about  the  playing,  either,  it  was  my  posture,  the  way  I walked  across  the  stage, 
my  clothing  which  I didn’t  even  fucking  choose,  but  she  complained  about  it  an3rway. 
Not  that  she’d  ever  gotten  an3rwhere  with  her  playing,  not  since  some  award  when 
she  was  in  grade  school. 

“My  father  was  a Russian  diplomat;  Mother  was  a translator.  They  were  both  rich, 
family  money,  though  she  had  more.  Father  must  have  always  felt  a little  . . . weak, 
because  of  that.  Russian  men,  they’re  supposed  to  be  strong,  in  charge,  head  of  the 
family.  But  it  was  her  city,  her  culture,  even  her  apartment;  we  lived  in  one  of  her 
family’s  places,  in  Daan,  took  up  two  entire  floors  of  the  building. 

“Maybe  that’s  why  he  started  to  beat  me.  I was  something  he  could  be  in  charge  of 
Any  excuse  would  do:  an  A-minus  on  a school  paper,  having  one  sock  pulled  higher 

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51 


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than  the  other,  getting  caught  watching  telenovelas  out  of  HK,  the  ones  with  the  aw- 
ful pop  music.” 

Adra  turned  her  flat  stare  on  Cheung  for  a moment,  blinked  like  she’d  suddenly 
matched  a memory. 

“And  I was  such  a damn  good  girl.  I’d  stand  there  and  take  it,  and,”  Adra  paused, 
teeth  tight,  bobhed  her  head,  “curtsy  afterward.  And  go  hack  to  my  fucking 
lessons.” 

Yu  had  refilled  Adra’s  glass.  She  took  another  swig,  a high-tide  line  of  green  scum 
on  her  lip.  “What  is  this  crap?”  But  she  drank  again,  wiped  her  mouth. 

“Eight  years  of  that,  then,  practice  and  punishment,  from  those  first,  earliest 
memories  until  the  day  I came  up  with  my  plan.  I woke  up  one  morning,  the  idea  in 
my  head.  I felt  so  buzzed.  First  time  I thought  I understood  what  people  meant  when 
they  said  ‘happy’ 

“It  was  the  telenovelas  that  gave  me  the  idea.  All  that  drama,  every  day  a new  dis- 
aster, another  death,  just  because  someone’s  feelings  were  hurt.  I watched  them  be- 
cause they  were  funny.  I’d  lay  there  and  laugh  at  the  foolish  people  slipping  on  the 
same  emotional  banana  peel  over  and  over  again.  But  what  I realized  that  night  was 
that  those  shows  weren’t  just  funny,  they  were  true.  That’s  what  people  are  really 
like.  That’s  how  they  manipulate  each  other,  rip  each  other  apart  with  their  own 
weakness,  like  Father  and  Mother.  I could  do  that. 

“The  next  months  were  all  flubbed  notes  and  bad  posture,  forgotten  homework 
and  crying  fits.  But  it  didn’t  work.  I was  getting  more  criticism,  more  beatings,  not 
less.  No  matter  how  hard  I studied  the  videos,  no  matter  how  much  I practiced  in 
front  of  the  mirror,  I couldn’t  quite  get  that  vulnerability  that  let  you  hook  people, 
draw  them  in  and  spin  them  round. 

“And  then  one  of  the  ’novelas  did  a story  arc  on  neuro-nano.  The  illegal  kind,  pi- 
rated memories.  This  character  got  addicted,  started  acting  like  she  was  someone 
else  entirely.  That’s  what  I needed. 

“Money  was  no  problem;  I’d  been  hacking  my  parents’  accounts  since  I was  eight. 
Turns  out  supply  was  no  problem,  either;  the  big  HK  corporations  do  their  manufac- 
turing on  Taiwan,  just  to  piss  off  the  mainland.  The  stuff  leaked  out  onto  the  street. 
Literally,  sometimes.  The  towns  downwind  of  the  plants  got  real  strange,  whole 
neighborhoods  sharing  the  same  strayed  memory.  Plenty  of  people  willing  to  sell  you 
a vial  of  someone  else’s  pitiful  past,  even  if  you  were  a kid  in  knee  socks,  as  long  as 
you  could  pay. 

“Now  I had  every  human  failing  at  my  fingertips,  not  faked  but  real,  as  real  as 
memory. 

“After  that,  there  were  no  more  beatings.  Not  for  me.  Punishments,  yes,  dinners  de- 
nied, privileges  suspended,  and  there  was  always  the  bamboo  switch.  But  the  real  beat- 
ings, those  stopped.  It  was  like  all  those  years,  they  hadn’t  wanted  perfection,  they’d 
wanted  weakness.  The  beatings  stopped  as  soon  as  I started  crying  someone  else’s  tears. 

“Stopped  for  me,  that  is,  not  for  my  mother.  I’d  hear  them  at  night,  the  swish  and 
smack  and  grunt,  and  see  the  bruises  the  next  day,  when  a collar  shifted  or  a sleeve 
rode  up. 

“When  I was  fourteen,  I got  a full  scholarship  to  UHK,  pilot  program.  A ship  con- 
sole’s not  much  different  from  the  piano,  really.  Applied  for  parental  emancipation 
the  same  day,  walked  out  the  door  with  what  I had  on,  left  all  those  little  dresses  be- 
hind in  the  closet.  Never  went  back,  never  saw  them  again.” 

Adra  stretched  her  shoulders  back,  cracked  her  neck,  folded  her  arms. 

“Never  had  any  regrets,  either,  but  I know  that  after  I left.  Mother  would  be  there 
alone  with  Father,  and  the  beatings  would  never  stop.  So  . . . worst  thing.” 


52 


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Asimov's 


Crew  was  silent  a beat.  Yu  and  Cheung  exchanged  looks.  Then  Orit  scraped  her  chair 
back.  “Gotta  pee.”  And  Patel  followed,  and  Keita  and  Barb  hit  the  bar  for  another  round. 

Orit  had  her  mouth  at  Nava’s  ear,  whisper  or  tongue  wasn’t  clear  from  Nava’s 
sharp  smile,  and  Deighton,  mostly  drunk,  was  asking  Zandt  something  involved  and 
disjointed  about  silicates.  Perelman  tapped  the  table,  cleared  his  throat,  a rumble 
like  rocks  falling,  and  said,  “Adra.  Second  story.” 

Adra  had  gotten  something  new  from  the  bar,  clear  and  steaming.  She  took  a sip, 
frowned,  said,  “Most  painful?  That’s  a difficult  one.  People  let  you  down,  and  that 
never  gets  easier.  But  if  I have  to  choose  . . . 

“I  was  flying  shuttles,  back  and  forth  between  the  CSG,  the  Gentre  Spatial 
Guyanais,  and  Laplace  Station.  Dumb  work,  dull  work,  but  the  sort  of  thing  that 
looks  right  on  your  CV  if  you  are  shooting  for  an  Outer  System  contract.” 

A nod  from  Yu. 

“I  had  a lover  downside,  another  upside,  and  switched  one  or  the  other  out  every 
few  months,  but  I never  felt,”  she  stabbed  a palm  with  a fingertip,  “satiated.  Like 
eating  crisps  when  you’re  hungry.  You  fill  your  belly,  but  not  your  need.  The  problem 
was,  I wasn’t  hungry,  I was  thirsty.” 

She  took  another  sip,  waved  the  glass;  the  liquid  swirled  but  didn’t  spill. 

“Maybe  that’s  not  a good  analogy.  Point  is,  I was  looking  for  the  wrong  thing. 
Wasn’t  sex.  That  I can  handle  all  on  my  own.” 

Chuckles,  a scornful  snort  from  Keita.  Orit  said,  “Gotta  give  me  a chance.” 

“It  took  Tanja  to  show  me  what  it  was  I needed,”  Adra  continued,  “and  then  Tanja 
took  it  back.” 

“I  met  her  on  a trip  upside.  She  was  Nav,  first  year,  on  her  way  up  to  a contract  doing 
freight  runs  out  of  Laplace.  We  had  a spare  seat  in  the  cockpit,  gave  her  a lift.  Hit  the 
bar,  after,  talked  late,  talked  the  whole  shift  through,  so  I had  to  do  the  downside  run 
on  no  sleep.  Before  I left,  she  took  my  hand — she  was  a tiny  thing,  her  fingers  bare- 
ly wrapped  around  mine — and  she  pressed  it  against  her  face.  Pressed  it  hard;  when 
she  let  go,  my  fingers  had  left  pale  streaks  from  jaw  to  ear.  T’ll  be  here,  next  time  you’re 
upside,’  she  said,  and  though  she’d  been  smiling  all  night,  she  wasn’t  smiling  then. 

“That  next  trip,  those  first  shifts  together,  you  don’t  need  to  know  the  details. 
Here’s  what  it  was  like,  by  the  end.  Here’s  what  she  took  from  me. 

“I’d  get  to  Laplace,  go  straight  from  the  docking  ring  to  meet  her,  some  trendy  bar 
or  new-thing  restaurant.  I’d  be  in  my  flight  overalls,  and  she’d  always  have  on  some 
perfect  little  dress,  killer  shoes,  makeup  so  good  it  was  invisible.  How  she  maneu- 
vered low-g  in  those  shoes,  I never  knew. 

“We’d  talk,  catch  up  on  the  gossip;  those  low-earth  orbit  routes,  everyone  knows 
everyone.” 

“Same  out  here,”  said  Nava,  with  her  sharp-edged  smile. 

Adra  gave  her  a flat  look.  “We’d  eat  and  drink  and  talk  for  a couple  of  hours,  and 
the  whole  time  Tanja  would  be  working  it.  She  knew  exactly  when  to  cross  her  legs, 
or  brush  her  hair  back,  or  lean  low  to  adjust  the  strap  of  her  shoe.  She  could  focus  it 
like  a laser.  It  was  never  someone  local.  But  Laplace  is  a busy  place,  and  there  was 
always  some  random  person  in  transit.  Not  really  random,  though.  She’d  pick  the 
sort  we  both  despised;  the  Earther  businessman,  sweaty  and  pink  and  trying  to  hide 
his  low-g  hard-on,  or  a rich  bitch  from  one  of  the  orbital  colonies,  with  those  stupid 
balloon  implants  inflated  as  far  as  they’d  go.  I’d  watch  her  watch  them,  like  she  was 
slicing  them  into  millimeter  slabs  for  scanning.  Sometimes  she’d  take  a hit  of  nano, 
tweak  herself  to  match  their  need — she  had  a bigger  selection  in  that  tiny  purse 
than  most  dealers — but  mostly  she  could  hook  them  without  that  tweak.  She’d  catch 
their  eye,  look  away.  That  was  all  it  took.  They’d  sit  down  at  our  table,  or  she’d  slip 

Twelve  and  Tag 


53 


March  2015 

over  to  theirs,  while  I sat  there  unnoticed.  She’d  bought  me  this  little  switchblade  in 
the  Laplace  gift  shop;  I’d  carve  little  figures  out  of  toothpicks,  line  them  up  like  an 
audience  to  watch  her  work. 

“At  some  point — there  was  never  a signal,  not  that  even  I could  tell — she’d  just  get 
up  and  walk  out.  The  mark  would  sit  there,  waiting  for  her  to  return.  If  there  was 
more  than  one  of  them,  they’d  joke  about  women  and  restrooms,  or  swap  notes  on 
her  makeup.  But  after  a while,  they’d  start  to  realize  that  she  wasn’t  coming  back. 
You  could  see  it,  like  their  faces  were  hollowing  out  from  the  back;  then  they’d  crack, 
and  then  they’d  crumble.  I sat  and  watched  for  that  moment,  when  their  faces  fell 
away  and  all  that  was  left  was  an  empty,  shallow  shell. 

“Tanja  would  be  waiting  for  me  at  my  apartment,  dress  and  shoes  in  a heap  by  the 
door,  head  down  over  the  console  I’d  bought  her.  In  that  half  hour  since  she’d  gotten 
back  from  the  bar,  she’d  have  already  hacked  their  personal  accounts.  Just  that  one 
conversation  she’d  had  with  them,  their  name,  their  business,  maybe  a glance  at 
their  phone  while  they  were  at  the  bar,  that  was  all  it  took  for  Tanja  to  hack  their 
lives  as  thoroughly  as  she  had  hacked  their  so-called  personalities. 

“We  didn’t  steal  from  them,  not  money,  an3rway.  Sometimes  we’d  delete  a couple  of 
photos,  or  a mailbox  folder,  something  they  wouldn’t  miss  for  months,  then  miss  very, 
very  much.  Sometimes  we’d  copy  a file  or  two;  Tanja  was  growing  some  sort  of  crazy 
database  of  identities.  And  sometimes  there  was  just  nothing  worth  deleting  and 
we’d  add  a file  instead,  so  they’d  know  we’d  been  there,  had  seen  everything  they  had 
and  were. 

“Sometimes  we  fucked,  after;  sometimes  I’d  tell  her  what  a bad,  bad  girl  she  was 
and  spank  her;  sometimes  we  just  held  each  other.  No  matter  what,  though,  after,  I 
was  full.  Content.  Finally,  satisfied.  Because  what  she  did,  the  way  she  wrapped  the 
marks  up  in  their  own  emotions,  laid  their  lives  at  my  feet,  showed  them  up  as  the 
empty  shells  they  were,  she  did  that  for  me. 

“And  then,  one  day,  no  signal,  no  tell,  she  just  got  up  and  walked.  She’d  been  work- 
ing me  all  night.  We  did  that  sometimes,  pretended  we  were  strangers,  all  part  of 
the  game.  It  was  hot  in  the  bar,  and  she  was  sweaty,  pushy,  rude.  I turned  to  order  an- 
other round,  and  when  I turned  back,  she  was  gone.  Waited  in  the  damn  room  all 
shift,  stayed  there  right  through  my  next  scheduled  trip,  and  the  next.  Got  a demerit 
for  that  in  my  flight  record.  She  left  me  there,  cracked  and  crumbled.  Just  another 
mark. 

“She  took  the  console,  the  dress  and  shoes  she  was  wearing  that  night,  left  every- 
thing else.  I still  have  her  crap  in  a storage  locker  on  Laplace. 

“Before  I met  her,  I was  always  needing  something,  but  I didn’t  know  what  it  was. 
After  she  left  me,  I knew  what  it  was  I needed.  I just  couldn’t  have  it.” 

Adra  looked  around  the  table,  ended  on  Cheung.  “That’s  pain.” 

Orit  said,  “Second  one’s  the  lie.  You’re  too  lean  to  be  a top,  too  strong.”  She  traced  a 
finger  down  Adra’s  arm.  “Tops  are  weak.” 

And  Patel  waggled  battered  fingers,  echoed,  “Second’s  the  lie.” 

But  Yu  shook  her  head,  small,  economical  motions,  that  was  Yu,  and  said,  “First 
one’s  the  lie.  Her  mother  beat  her,  not  her  father,  not  the  teacher.  Beat  the  father,  too, 
still  does,  if  they’re  both  still  alive.”  Yu  looked  at  Adra.  “I  know  the  t3rpe,”  she  said. 

It  went  around  the  table,  then,  skipping  Adra,  six  votes  against  the  first,  four 
against  the  second,  until  it  came  to  Zandt. 

Zandt  stared  ahead,  off  over  Cheung’s  shoulder,  one  long  breath,  two,  then  his 
head  shifted,  a huge  effort  to  fight  the  inertia  of  that  gaze,  but  it  came  aroimd,  ground 
to  a stop  on  Perelman. 

“What’s  the  rule  when  both  stories  are  lies?”  Zandt  asked. 


54 


Gregory  Norman  Bossert 


Asimov's 


Perelman  raised  a brow,  dropped  the  corner  of  his  mouth  to  counter.  That  was 
the  look  he  used  when  a diagnostic  came  up  wrong,  onship,  or  a sensor  pinged,  un- 
expectedly. 

“You  call  ‘fault,’”  Cheung  answered. 

Zandt  swung  that  gaze  over  and  down  to  the  navigator.  Cheung’s  eyes  flicked  up 
into  it,  and  away  again. 

“Fault,  then,”  Zandt  said.  “Both  lies.” 

“Makes  it  six  to  four  against  the  first,  then,”  Nava  said.  She’d  voted  against  the 
second.  “We  get  it?” 

Adra  nodded,  looked  at  Yu,  looked  into  her  glass.  “It  was  Mother.  She  was  my  teacher. 
Beat  my  father,  too,  you  got  that  right.  He  was  weak,  a fucking  failure.  Deserved  it.” 

She  shoved  back  from  the  table.  “My  round.  Someone  help  carry.” 

A scrape  and  shuffle,  some  crew  to  the  bar  and  some  to  the  back,  toilets  and  a 
stretching  of  legs  gone  stiff  Orit  and  Nava  drifted  to  a dark  corner,  Nava’s  grin 
gleaming  over  Grit’s  shoulder. 

Perelman  and  Cheung  looked  across  the  table  at  Zandt.  Yu  was  standing  by  the 
window,  looking  out,  but  head  turned,  listening. 

“Where  was  the  he?”  Perelman  asked. 

“In  the  second  story,  he  means,”  Cheung  explained,  watching  his  own  fingers  trace 
the  rim  of  a glass.  “What  was  it  you  heard?” 

Zandt  turned  his  head,  stared  at  a spot  on  Cheung’s  chest.  Finally,  he  said,  “It  was 
all  false.  Just  a game  to  her.  Stolen  memories,  appropriated  emotions.  Doesn’t  mean 
it.  Doesn’t  feel  it.” 

Yu  said,  apparently  to  the  window,  “There  are  words  for  that.  Sociopath  is  one.” 

Perelman  rumbled  uncertainty.  “A  hard  word,  that.” 

Yu  said,  “She’s  still  got  those  vials.  Bootleg  T.A.G.  vectors.  Hidden  under  a false 
bottom  in  her  toiletries  bag.  The  vials  are  labeled,  things  like  ‘laughing,’  ‘kneecap,’ 
‘bimbo,’  ‘uncertainty’  ‘play  stupid.’  ” 

“Should  have  come  to  me,”  Perelman  said,  a frown  more  hurt  than  angry. 

“I  just  found  out  this  morning,  when  we  were  getting  prepped  for  shore  leave.  She 
didn’t  see  me  sitting  there  in  the  head.  I can  be  quiet.” 

Perelman  grunted. 

“She  unzipped  the  bottom  of  her  bag,  picked  through  the  vials  like  she  was  choos- 
ing a shirt  to  wear.  Guess  she  didn’t  find  one  that  fit  her  mood;  she  finally  put  them 
all  back.  I figured  out  the  false  bottom  while  she  was  in  the  shower.  One  vial  was  al- 
most empty.  It  was  labeled  ‘trust.’  ” 

“Trust  her,  or  trust  others?”  Perelman  asked.  Yu  was  still  looking  out  the  window, 
so  he  turned  to  Cheung. 

Whose  fingers  had  pushed  the  clutter  of  mismatched  bottles  into  a circle  in  the 
center  of  the  table.  “Trust  the  crew.”  Cheung  said.  “Don’t  have  to  be  straight,  under 
the  ice.  Don’t  have  to  be  all  the  way . . . human,  not  in  the  Outer  System.  Just  have  to 
fit.  The  crew  will  know.” 

“Not  all  the  way  human,”  Yu  echoed.  She’d  spread  her  fingers  against  the  plexi- 
glass as  if  she  could  hold  the  view  in  her  hand.  “The  T.A.G.  capture  process  uses  viral 
systems  based  on  Europan  organisms.  I’ve  got  that  in  me.  Just  having  a backup  at 
all,  does  that  really  leave  us  human?” 

“More  or  less,”  Cheung  said.  Perelman  blinked  in  confusion.  Yu  laughed  softly, 
looked  over  her  shoulder  at  the  chatter  of  glass  on  glass. 

Zandt  had  retrieved  his  glass  from  Cheung’s  circle — just  tap  water,  he’d  been 
drinking — and  drained  it.  “Two  years  since  the  hack,  since  the  Great  Basin  longstore 
was  erased,”  he  said.  “So  where  does  that  leave  you?” 

“Here,”  Cheung  said. 

Twelve  and  Tag 


55 


March  2015 


We  tumbled  back  to  the  table,  red  and  raucous.  Deighton  had  his  shirt  off,  was 
wringing  it  out.  “What  goes  down  must  come  up,”  Barb  said,  and  Sintra  added,  “Man, 
he  spewed.” 

Patel  was  sent  to  the  corner  with  a glass  of  ice  water  to  break  up  Orit  and  Nava, 
who  spluttered  and  laughed  and  joined  Deighton  in  the  shirt-wringing. 

Perelman  tapped  the  table  again.  “Zandt.” 

Zandt  was  opposite  Cheung  and  Adra,  pinned  between  the  window  and  the  next 
table.  Everyone  shuffled  their  chairs,  made  him  center. 

“Twelve  and  Tag,”  Orit  said,  “I  got — ” 

But  Perelman  rumbled  right  over  her: 

“Mass” 

Sintra:  “Moves,  Thick” 

Cheung:  “Thigh,  Sweet”  (Orit  and  Nava  elbow  each  other) 

Barb:  “Swung,  Hung”  (cheers) 

Patel:  “Head,  Coil” 

Nava:  “Crown,  Blunt”  (a  sharp  look  from  Cheung) 

Orit:  “Brow” 

And  Adra,  slumped  in  her  chair,  tagged  it  with:  “Black.” 

Zandt  looked  at  her  for  a long  time,  his  eyes  skin  hair  all  a flat  tarnished  gold  in 
the  Jupiter-light.  The  crew  was  caught  in  that  heavy  silence,  all  except  Cheung’s  fin- 
gers amongst  the  glasses. 

“Don’t  know  if  this  is  worst,  stupidest,  most  painful.  Not  sure  it  matters. 

“Something  I do  know.  I’m  an  addict.  Don’t  use,  haven’t  for  twelve  years,  still  an 
addict.  Dad  was,  too,  alcohol  for  him.  Made  it  himself,  like  most  out  there  in  the  Free 
State.  Southern  African  Republic,  part  of  the  old  South  Africa,  and  the  Boer  State  be- 
fore that.  Empty  place. 

“Had  a sister,  half-sister,  Teeje,  we  called  her.  Teeje  was  five  years  younger,  daugh- 
ter of  my  stepmother.  My  mother  died  bearing  me. 

“Teeje  was  tiny,  dark,  like  my  stepmother,  Indian,  but  she  got  her  blood  from  my 
father.  The  need.  Nano,  with  her.  I could  never  stand  it.  Machines  in  your  brain,  trac- 
ing out  someone  else’s  memories.  I wanted  less  to  think  about,  not  more. 

“We’d  found  an  outbuilding  on  the  range,  relay  station  for  remote  harvesters,  made 
it  our  own,  scavenged  furniture,  my  music,  Teeje’s  console,  my  bioprinter  with  the 
latest  drug  and  her  hacked  nano.  She’d  be  laughing,  not  even  looking,  it  seemed,  but 
the  needle  would  slip  in  true  and  her  head  would  go  back  and  her  laughter  go  deep 
and  wild. 

“Mrs.  Van  Zandt,  we  tried  to  stay  out  of  her  way,  much  as  Dad  would  allow  that. 
Which  wasn’t  much.  We  lived  in  the  main  house,  ate  at  the  main  table  with  them. 
‘They’re  mine,’  he’d  tell  his  wife.  We  were  his  like  the  house  was  his,  like  the  land  and 
the  folks  who  worked  it  and  Mrs.  bloody  Van  Zandt.  Teeje  and  I,  we  were  a little  more 
his  than  the  rest,  though.  He’d  had  us  T.A.G.ed,  when  I was  thirteen  and  Teeje  was 
just  seven.” 

Nava  interrupted  with  a snort.  “Can’t  back  up  a kid.”  We  groaned,  and  Orit 
punched  her  in  the  shoulder  for  bollixing  the  game.  Nava  did  that  sometimes,  har- 
poonist  reflexes.  “It’s  in  the  U.N.  neural  rights  charter,”  Nava  grumbled. 

But  Cheung  was  shaking  his  head,  an  odd  look  on  his  face.  “You  can  if  you  have 
enough  money  and  the  right  connections.  You  can  T.A.G.  anyone  you  want,  if  you  own 
the  technology.” 

Yu  nodded  her  small  slow  nod.  “Van  Zandt.  VanZ  Inc.” 

“Half  the  boats  under  the  ice  got  a contract  with  VanZ,”  Perelman  said. 

Gregory  Norman  Bossert 


56 


Asimov's 

Yu  said,  “VanZ  is  material  science,  nano,  patents  for  smartcloth,  adaptive  armor. 
Weapons.”  She  looked  at  Cheung.  “T.A.G.  tech.” 

Cheung  was  very  still.  “The  Grand  Basin  longstore,”  he  said. 

“Not  a lot  of  rules  in  the  Free  State,”  Zandt  said.  And  when  no  one  else  interrupt- 
ed, he  continued. 

“Dad  was  the  only  Van  Zandt.  We  were  just  Zandts.  And  he  had  us,  body  and  soul, 
and  the  souls  locked  away  at  Grand  Basin  out  of  reach.  ‘Forever.’ 

“Teeje  was  my  sanity,  all  through  those  years.  She  was  my  soul.  No  matter  how 
high  she  got,  how  out  there,  she  was  my  center.  Every  moment  we  had  away  from  the 
work,  from  my  father,  we  were  together.  Out  in  our  hideaway,  out  of  our  heads,  out  in 
one  of  those  shared  immersion  games  on  her  console.  I’d  just  stagger  around  staring 
at  the  scenery  and  Teeje,  she’d  have  hacked  the  environment,  argyle  skies  and  faces 
floating  like  clouds,  staring  back  down  at  us  like  Dad  did  when  we  were  little.  Scare 
the  crap  out  of  the  other  players,  she’d  hack  their  accounts  as  well,  put  their  own 
parents’  faces  up  there  too,  or  whatever  would  shake  them  hardest.  She  could  hack 
people  like  she  hacked  machines. 

“One  day,  I was  eighteen,  I came  in  from  a two-day  trip  out  mending  fences,  and 
she  was  gone.  She’d  left  everything.  Left  me  a note.  Not  going  to  tell  you  what  it  said. 
Guess  this  isn’t  ‘most  painful’  I’m  telling,  because  that  was  the  most  painful  moment, 
then,  and  I am  not  yet  done. 

“‘I  got  her  T.A.G.,’  Dad  said.  ‘Little  bitch  won’t  last  long  out  there,  and  if  she  goes 
underground  I’ll  have  her  declared  dead.  Then  I restore  a copy,  and  this  copy  I’ll  take 
special  care  of’ 

“Doesn’t  mean  he  wasn’t  furious.  I was  too  big  to  beat,  by  that  time,  so  he  took  it 
out  on  Mira,  that  was  Teeje’s  mother.  She  left  him,  after  that.  We  all  did,  eventually, 
steal  our  selves  from  him.  Even  if  he  had  our  souls.” 

A pause,  then.  Grit  leaned  into  Nava’s  ear,  but  Nava  stopped  her  with  a hand, 
wrapped  her  arm  around  Grit’s  shoulders  to  hold  her  still. 

“I  stuck  there  another  year  and  a half,  got  my  certificate  in  soil  science  from  the 
technical  school,  turned  that  into  a scholarship  in  Capetown,  three  year  program  in 
mining,  turned  that  into  a research  grant  from  a Guter  System  mining  consortium.  A 
year  of  study  on  Luna,  then  a free  ticket  Out,  dust  the  Earth  off  my  feet  and  never 
look  back. 

“Because  I knew  that’s  where  Teeje  would  be.  Out.  She  was  always  sure,  always 
fearless,  was  what  I thought.  The  way  she  could  suck  down  other  people’s  memories, 
she’d  be  hungry  for  her  own.  And  she’d  studied.  We  were  teleschooled,  and  those 
hours  in  the  outbuilding  while  I was  listening  to  tunes  and  drifting,  she’d  have  her 
tablet  on  her  lap,  out  of  her  head  into  someone  else’s,  but  still  studying.  ‘Learning  is 
just  hacking  my  own  brain,’  she’d  say.  ‘Easy’  It  was,  for  her. 

“So,  all  that  time  in  Capetown  and  Chicago,  catching  up  with  my  classes,  I was  try- 
ing to  catch  up  with  her.  She’d  be  pilot,  or  nav,  something  like  that,  university  pro- 
gram or  military.  Gnly  a couple  of  dozen  schools  on  Earth  do  that  sort  of  training, 
should  have  been  easy  to  find  her.  Wasn’t.  I’d  have  figured  she  was  dead,  if  it  wasn’t 
for  the  messages  every  few  months.  The  whole  family  got  them,  and  copies  to  the 
T.A.G.  Board  and  the  Free  State  court,  but  they  were  always  addressed  to  Dad.  Each 
one  signed  with  a notarized  DNA  hash,  each  one  untraceable,  each  one  just  a single 
word:  ‘alive.’” 

Grit  made  a sound  like  a hiccup.  Nava  turned  her  head  with  a sharp  look  ready, 
saw  Grit’s  face  and  wrapped  her  other  arm  around  her  instead. 

“I  was  on  Laplace  station,  on  my  way  back  to  Luna  after  a seminar  in  Chicago. 
Walked  into  a dark,  crowded  bar,  smaller,  tighter  than  this  place  here  . . .” 

Zandt  looked  at  Yu’s  shoulder,  seeing  something  else. 

Twelve  and  Tag 


57 


March  2015 


“We  shouldn’t  have  been  able  to  recognize  each  other.  I was  ten  centimeters  taller, 
wider,  she  was  thinner,  wouldn’t  have  seemed  possible,  her  dark  skin  gone  that  dull 
space-tan  and  bruises  under  the  makeup.  But  I saw  her,  soon  as  I walked  in  there,  I 
knew  her,  she  knew  me. 

“I’d  been  right  about  the  Nav  degree.  Wrong  about  the  course.  She  was  training 
under  a corporate  contract,  slogging  through  it  the  slow  way  like  I was. 

“I  was  also  wrong  about  the  sure  and  fearless.  She  was  strong,  yeah,  but  it  was  our 
father’s  sort  of  strength,  stubborn  and  thin.  I’d  quit  the  drugs  when  she’d  left.  Was 
no  high  without  her.  But  she  was  still  using,  the  new  stuff  coming  out  of  Luna,  syn- 
thetic memories,  psychotic  break  in  a bottle.  I thought  she’d  be  headed  Out,  but  she 
was  just  going  deeper  in. 

“She  was  using  another  way,  too,  using  people,  selling  herself  to  afford  the  stuff 
She’d  done  tricks,  she  told  me,  to  get  through  training,  but  she’d  found  a better  way, 
got  herself  a sugar-momma  up  on  Laplace,  all  the  money  she  needed,  a place  to 
crash.  A place  to  use.  It’s  stable,  she  said,  it’s  safe,  it’s  just  like  the  outbuilding,  back 
at  home,  and  all  it  cost  was  bruises,  a little  blood.  Just  like  back  at  home. 

“Dad’s  blood,  didn’t  just  have  the  need  in  it,  had  the  anger  too.  I shouted,  called  her 
a fool,  called  her  his  daughter,  worst  thing  I knew  how  to  say,  told  her  she  had  to 
come  with  me,  back  to  Luna,  get  clean.  My  company  had  open  positions;  always  open 
positions  for  the  Outer  System.  She’d  come  back  to  Luna  with  me,  and  then  we’d  go 
Out  together. 

“Stood  there  at  the  dock  the  next  shift,  sure  I’d  blown  it,  sure  she  wouldn’t  come. 
But  she  did.  No  suitcase,  just  a purse  full  of  memory  sticks,  wearing  a little  black 
dress  and  useless  shoes. 

“First  month  on  Luna,  I thought  things  were  good.  She  was  in  a program,  detox, 
had  paper  signed  with  my  company  for  work  in  the  Belt  once  we  got  certified,  not 
my  same  division  but  we’d  be  seeing  each  other  once  a month  or  so.  She  spent  all  her 
money  on  a new  console,  on  a crazy  expensive  intersystem  network  node,  but  I was 
making  enough  to  cover  rent  and  food  for  us  both. 

“Came  home  early  one  shift,  she  was  passed  out  on  her  console,  needle  in  her 
hand.  Set  her  in  the  shower,  got  her  conscious,  shouted  at  her.  Kept  my  hands  down, 
felt  proud  of  myself  for  that.  She  was  just  a wisp  you’d  snap  like  that,  hadn’t  been 
eating.  I’d  thought  it’d  been  the  detox  but  it  was  just  the  nano  again. 

“We  shouted  a while,  and  then  we  talked,  and  then  we  shouted  again.  ‘I’m  using 
it,’  she  kept  saying.  ‘I’m  almost  in.’  ‘What  “in”?’  I said.  ‘We’re  going  Out.’  ‘So  go.  Dad,” 
she  said,  and  plugged  into  her  console. 

“Wasn’t  going  to  be  my  dad.  Wasn’t.  So  I put  my  hands  in  my  pockets  and  I went. 

“I  found  a place  to  crash  by  the  shuttle  port,  food  out  of  the  vending  machines  and 
no  booze,  just  a lot  of  thinking.  Remembering  those  days  in  our  hideaway  back  home. 
Remembering  the  sound  of  her  laughter.  Decided  that’s  what  I’d  tell  her,  that  I didn’t 
own  her,  no  one  did.  Tell  her  that  all  I wanted  was  to  hear  her  laugh  again,  and  any- 
thing else  she  did  wasn’t  my  business. 

“Even  after  I figured  that  out,  I didn’t  go  back  to  the  apartment,  not  right  away.  I went 
through  what  I was  going  to  say,  what  she  might  say  back,  practiced  until  I was  sure  I 
could  get  it  right,  could  handle  anything  she  came  back  with  without  getting  mad. 

“It  was  almost  three  weeks  later  I went  back  to  the  apartment.  April  7, 2084.” 

Yu  said  something  too  quiet  for  us  to  hear. 

“Of  course  she  wasn’t  there  when  I got  back.  Just  her  console.  The  display  was 
flashing  and  I thought  it  might  be  a message  for  me.  That’s  what  I told  myself,  any- 
way, to  justify  plugging  in  and  scrolling  back  through  the  history  buffer.  When  I re- 
alized what  I was  seeing,  I pulled  the  console  apart  and  fed  it  a handful  at  a time 
into  the  garbage  disposal.” 


58 


Gregory  Norman  Bossert 


Asimov's 


Silence.  Yu  and  Cheung  exchanged  a long,  sad  look.  And  then  Cheung  explained  it 
for  the  rest  of  us.  “That’s  the  date  of  the  hack  on  the  Grand  Basin  longstore.  Every 
T.A.G.  in  the  system  was  scrambled  beyond  recovery.” 

Adra  fumbled  amongst  the  bottles,  found  one  with  something  left  in  it  and  downed 
it,  leaned  back  again,  hands  in  pockets. 

“Station  security  called  while  I was  still  sweeping  up  the  pieces.  They’d  found  her 
outside  an  airlock,  no  suit,  just  that  little  dress,  those  shoes.  She’d  made  it  two,  three 
steps.  Out.” 

Zandt  straightened,  a ponderous  unfolding,  his  focus  coming  in  from  somewhere 
far  to  land  straight  across  the  table  at  Adra.  “I  booked  a ticket  back  to  Earth,  to  the 
Free  State,  but  Dad  was  already  dead  by  the  time  I got  there.  Massive  stroke.  Took 
that  corporate  contract  then,  been  working  Outer  System  ever  since.  Been  searching 
again,  too.  Knew  Teeje’s  new  name  by  then,  made  it  easier  to  track  where  she’d  been. 
Korteweg,  Tanja  Korteweg.  Teeje  had  found  a way  Out  that  I couldn’t  follow.  Least  I 
could  do  was  track  down  her  god  forever  damned  sugar-momma  from  Laplace,  the 
soulless  sociopathic  bitch  who’d  held  the  door  open  for  her.” 

Ever3d.hing  hung.  Yu  stared  at  Adra.  Nava  held  Grit.  Cheung  looked  at  Zandt  and 
said  “No.” 

Adra  pushed  back,  pulled  her  hands  out  of  her  pockets.  A flash  of  something  in  the 
Jupiter-light. 

Zandt  stood.  His  chair  tipped,  clattered  against  the  table  behind.  A blur  of  steel,  a 
slap  of  wood  on  flesh  as  he  flipped  his  cane,  grabbed  it  by  the  end.  The  table  scraped 
forward  as  he  leaned  into  it;  glasses  tipped,  cracked,  crashed  to  the  floor. 

The  cane  went  up  and  around  and  down,  a second  when  it  looked  like  those  drag- 
on teeth  would  end  up  buried  in  Adra’s  temple,  but  Cheung  had  seen  it  coming, 
raised  a hand.  Fingers  cracked,  flapped,  didn’t  stop  the  stick,  no  way  to  stop  that 
stick.  But  he  slowed  it,  and  Adra  shoved  her  long  legs  down  and  got  a shoulder  up. 
There  was  a wet  smack  of  ligament  displaced  and  skin  torn,  a hiss  as  if  her  breath 
had  been  forced  out  of  her  by  the  blow.  She  continued  the  motion,  foot  up  on  her 
chair,  spiraling  up  and  around.  Her  hip  crunched  glass  as  she  came  down  across  the 
table.  There  was  a gleam  as  her  fist  connected  with  Zandt’s  ear,  a meaty  scrunch, 
and  then  Adra  half-slid,  half-rolled  off  the  table  and  to  her  feet. 

Zandt  stood  for  a second,  not  volition  but  inertia.  Then  he  toppled  forward  into  the 
ruin  of  the  table.  A short  black  hilt  protruded  from  his  ear,  a finger’s  width  of  steel 
switchblade. 

A bottle  hit  the  floor,  rolled  to  a stop  under  the  window. 

Perelman  was  the  only  one  still  sitting.  He  looked  at  Adra,  where  she  stood  at  the 
end  of  the  table,  arm  hung  limp  at  her  side.  “Leave,”  he  said,  “before  station  security 
arrives.” 

She  stared  at  him,  held  up  a bloody  hand.  “My  arm,  I need — ” 

“ — to  leave,”  Perelman  said.  “Europa.  Jupiter.  Go  Out  or  In,  nothing  for  you  here 
an3anore.” 

“Stories  have  a way  of  getting  around,”  Nava  said. 

“It  was  self  defense,”  she  said. 

But  Perelman  shook  his  head.  Adra  looked  at  the  crew,  one  at  a time,  still  trying 
to  figure  us  out,  us  humans. 

Cheung,  broken  fingers  cradled  fluttering  against  his  chest,  explained,  almost 
gently,  ‘You’d  need  someone  to  testify  on  your  behalf” 

‘You’d  need  backup,”  Grit  said,  with  what  was  almost  a laugh. 

Adra  looked  toward  the  bar;  no  one  there  returned  her  gaze.  She  nodded,  then, 
blinked  down  at  the  body.  “Fucked  up  as  his  sister.  Must  run  in  the  blood.” 

Twelve  and  Tag 


59 


March  2015 


She  turned  toward  the  door,  and  didn’t  look  hack. 

Nava  picked  slivers  of  glass  off  her  shirt.  “Gotta  have  words  with  the  captain,”  she 
said.  “He  missed  something  there,  hiring  those  two.  Sure  didn’t  want  either  of  them 
on  our  crew.” 

Yu  tilted  her  head,  her  own  small  shrug,  and  said,  “Captain  trusts  us  to  catch  the 
deep  stuff  Why  we’re  here.” 

Nods  all  around. 

Looking  down  at  Cheung’s  shattered  hand,  Yu  added,  “Can’t  catch  everything, 
though.  Sometimes  you  just  have  to  get  out  of  the  way.” 

Cheung  grimaced,  shook  his  head.  “I’ve  tried  that  before  and  it  didn’t  work.  Any- 
way, she  was  crew,  up  until  she  pulled  the  knife.” 

Orit  spread  her  fingers  out  over  the  body  and  said,  “Too  bad  he  didn’t  get  to  his 
second  story.” 

Perelman  got  to  his  feet,  shook  his  head,  rumbled,  “He  did.” 

Nava  said,  “Stupidest,  for  sure.” 

And  Cheung  tagged  it:  “Fault.  They  were  both  true.”  O 


60 


Gregory  Norman  Bossert 


APRIL/MAY 

ISSUE 


ALSO 

IN 

APRIL/MAY 


OUR 

EXCITING 

FEATURES 


COMING 

SOON 


Our  April/May  2015  double  anniversary  issue  is  another  jam- 
packed  edition  of  Asimov’s.  Eugene  Fischer’s  cover  story  chroni- 
cles a pregnant  reporter’s  investigation  of  a mysterious  illness  that 
has  the  potential  to  cause  massive  society  upheaval  and  which  will 
certainly  engender  repercussions  for  “The  New  Mother.”  We’ve 
managed  to  smush  a second  novella  into  the  issue  as  well.  Find 
out  what  the  future  holds  for  “The  Children  of  Gal”  in  Allen  IVI. 
Steele’s  riveting  conclusion  to  his  Arkwright  series. 

we  have  quite  a Philadelphian  contingency:  Michael  Swanwick 
& Gregory  Frost  warn  it’s  best  to  “Lock  Up  Your  Chickens  and 
Daughters — H’ard  and  Andy  Are  Come  to  Town!”;  Tom  Purdom 
forecasts  the  future  of  the  “Day  Job”;  and  Fran  Wilde  shows 
us  “How  to  Walk  Through  Historic  Graveyards  in  the  Post- 
Digital  Age.”  British  author  Liz  Williams  takes  a look  at  the 
bride’s  fate  in  “The  Marriage  of  the  Sea,”  while  Australian  author 
Anna  Tambour  creates  an  otherworldly  clash  in  “The  Gun 
Between  the  Veryush  and  the  Cloud  Mothers.”  Jay  O’Connell 
weaves  together  “Willing  Flesh”;  new  author  Frank  Smith  finds 
that  “The  Sentry”  is  always  on  duty;  Joe  M.  McDermott  tells 
the  poignant  story  of  “Paul  and  His  Son”;  and  Robert  Reed 
takes  stock  of  the  Wow!  signal  in  “What  I Intend.” 

Robert  Silverberg’s  Reflections  column  considers  whether 
“Praising  or  Banning”  is  best;  Norman  Spinrad’s  On  Books 
examines  “Schlock,  Genre  and  Mainstream  SF”;  plus  we’ll  have 
an  array  of  poetry  and  other  features  you’re  sure  to  enjoy.  Look 
for  our  April/May  issue  on  sale  at  newsstands  on  March  17, 
2015.  Or  subscribe  to  Asimov’s— \r\  paper  format  or  in  down- 
loadable varieties — by  visiting  us  online  at  www.asimovs.com. 
We’re  also  available  individually  or  by  subscription  on 
Amazon.com’s  Kindle  and  Kindle  Fire,  and  BarnesandNobie.com’s 
Nook,  as  well  as  from  magzter.com/magazines,  Google  Play, 
and  Kobo’s  digital  newsstand! 

new  stories  by  Mary  Robinette  Kowal,  Sarah  Pinsker,  Django 
Wexler,  David  Gerroid,  Indrapramit  Das,  Sandra  McDonaid, 
M.  Bennardo,  Henry  Lien,  Rudy  Rucker,  and  many  others! 


HOLDINE 
THE  GHDETS 

Gwendolyn  Clare 

Gwendolyn  Clare  resides  in  North  Carolina,  where  she  tends  a 
vegetable  garden  and  a flock  of  backyard  ducks.  She  has  a PhD 
in  mycology,  which  is  useful  for  identifying  wild  mushrooms, 
but  not  for  much  else.  Her  short  fiction  has  appeared  in 
Beneath  Ceaseless  Skies  and  Clarkesworld,  among  others.  Her 
fourth  appearance  in  Asimov's  is  an  unusual  take  on  the 
"coming-of-age"  story. 


.^^bby  was  in  control  of  the  body  the  first  time  a glitch  occurred.  She  was  “home 
from  college  for  the  long  weekend” — that’s  what  the  imprinted  memories  showed,  at 
least — and  her  mother  was  pouring  dollops  of  blueberry  pancake  batter  onto  the  siz- 
zling cast-iron  griddle. 

Her  father  had  found  an  excuse  to  go  into  work  on  a Saturday  morning,  as  he  often 
did  ever  since  Abby  “went  off  to  college.”  She  assumed  this  was  her  father’s  strategy 
for  coping  with  empty  nest  S3mdrome  and  tried  not  to  feel  hurt  by  his  avoidance.  Her 
interpretation  wasn’t  entirely  incorrect,  but  of  course  she  did  not  comprehend  exact- 
ly how  empty  the  nest  was. 

When  Abby  stopped  living  with  them  full  time,  the  body  stopped  being  Abby  full 
time.  Leasing  the  body  was  quite  expensive,  so  this  was  the  only  logical  decision.  But 
Abby’s  father  could  not  reconcile  himself  to  the  idea  that  Abby  only  existed  on  the 
weekends  when  they  rented  the  body,  never  mind  that  the  techs  would  fabricate 
memories  for  her  so  that  she  believed  she  had  experienced  all  the  intervening  days. 

The  body  shouldn’t  have  known  this.  The  body  should  only  know  what  Abby  knew. 

“Do  you  want  another  one?  We’ve  still  got  some  batter  here.” 

Abby  looked  up  from  the  purple-and-amber  swirls  of  blueberry  juice  and  maple 
S3rrup  she  was  prodding  with  her  fork.  “Um  ...  no  thanks.  Mom.  I think  I’m  full.” 

“I  wish  you  wouldn’t  worry  about  the  freshman  fifteen,”  her  mother  fussed.  “If  any- 
thing, you  look  like  you’ve  lost  a few  pounds  this  semester.” 

“Fm  not  your  daughter,  you  know.  I’m  just  carrying  her  ghost  for  a while.” 

Abby’s  mother  went  very  still.  “What  did  you  just  say?” 

Abby  frowned  and  rubbed  her  temples,  though  it  did  little  to  alleviate  the  dull 
throbbing  of  her  nascent  headache.  “Sorry,  Mom.  I don’t  know  why  I said  that.” 

The  doctors  were  not  pleased.  Abby’s  mother  showed  up  at  the  facility,  threaten- 
ing to  file  a formal  complaint  if  they  didn’t  meet  with  her  immediately.  Words  like 
“misrepresentation”  and  “breach  of  contract”  were  used. 


62 


Asimov's 

Dr.  Sankaran  brought  Abby’s  mother  into  a clean  beige  room  with  plush  couches. 
Abby  was  not  occupying  the  brain  at  that  particular  time,  so  the  body  could  not  re- 
spond to  their  arrival. 

“Abby?”  When  she  received  no  response,  Abby’s  mother  turned  to  the  doctor  and 
snapped,  “What  exactly  is  going  on  here?” 

“Mrs.  Whitfield,  you  reported  that  Abby’s  surrogate  broke  character,  so  I thought  it 
would  be  informative  to  introduce  you  to  the  surrogate  body.  This,”  he  said  with  a 
gesture,  “is  Baby  Martinez.” 

The  lips  could  not  say  hello,  because  Abby  wasn’t  there  to  move  them. 

Abby’s  mother  tentatively  sat  on  the  couch  across  from  the  body.  She  said,  “They 
named  her  ‘Baby’?” 

“That’s  what  they  write  on  the  birth  certificate  when  the  parents  don’t  supply  a 
name.  Pacilam-affected  infants  are  immediately  identifiable  at  birth,  and  doctors  usu- 
ally discourage  the  parents  from  naming  them.  It’s  not  healthy  to  develop  an  emotion- 
al attachment  to  a child  who  will  live  her  entire  life  in  a state  of  profound  catatonia.” 

Abby’s  mother  stared  at  the  body.  The  body  stared  at  nothing  in  particular. 

Dr.  Sankaran  sat  beside  Abby’s  mother  on  the  couch.  “I  know  this  might  be  dis- 
turbing, but  I wanted  you  to  see  for  yourself  that  Baby  Martinez  isn’t  self-aware.  It 
has  no  consciousness,  no  affect.  It  records  no  long-term  memories.  It  isn’t  a person, 
the  way  we  understand  personhood.” 

Abby’s  mother  took  the  body’s  hand,  turned  it  palm  up,  and  held  it  between  her 
own  two  hands.  The  body  wondered  how  Abby  would  respond  if  she  were  in  control. 
Being  empty,  the  body  did  nothing. 

“It’s  not  that  Baby  Martinez  won’t  respond  to  you,”  Dr.  Sankaran  said.  “It’s  that 
she  can’t.  For  all  intents  and  purposes,  there  is  no  Baby  Martinez.” 

Abby’s  mother  sighed  and  placed  the  body’s  hand  back  in  its  lap.  “Then  tell  me. 
Doctor:  why  did  Abby  call  herself  a ghost?” 

Chantal  buried  her  toes  in  the  sand  and  listened  to  the  waves  rolling  in.  She  and 
John  had  been  talking  about  a vacation  in  the  Bahamas  for  years,  but  there  were  al- 
ways obstacles — time,  money,  the  kids,  their  respective  careers.  Now  they  were  fi- 
nally here  together,  free  to  relax  and  reconnect,  but  Chantal  couldn’t  shake  the 
feeling  that  something  was  wrong. 

Some  days,  a veil  of  deja  vu  settled  over  her  and  stayed  for  hours,  as  if  she’d  lived 
every  moment  of  the  trip  before.  Other  times,  it  felt  as  if  there  were  traces  of  some- 
thing unfamiliar  smudged  across  her  thoughts. 

Twice  she  almost  ordered  shellfish,  and  John  had  to  remind  her  she  was  allergic. 

One  morning  she  sat  up  in  bed,  wide  awake,  as  if  the  paling  eastern  sky  spoke  to 
her  as  loud  as  an  alarm  clock.  She  wasn’t  usually  an  early  riser.  Moving  quietly  so 
as  not  to  wake  John,  she  padded  across  the  pleasantly  cool  tiled  floor  of  their  villa 
and  slid  open  the  glass  doors  to  let  in  the  last  of  the  nighttime  cool.  The  smell  of  salt- 
water spray  clung  to  the  air,  and  a memory  rose  unbidden  of  skinny-dipping  in  the 
moonlight.  Chantal  couldn’t  recall  when  she’d  done  that — maybe  only  in  a dream. 

She  looked  back  at  the  bed,  at  the  sleep-slack  face  of  the  man  she’d  been  married 
to  for  twenty-five  years,  and  felt  as  if  she  were  gazing  upon  a stranger.  She  closed 
the  sliding  door,  rubbed  her  eyes,  and  firmly  put  away  the  memory  or  dream  or 
whatever  it  was.  This  was  her  husband — her  funny  and  kind  and  utterly  familiar 
husband.  This  was  her  life  she  was  living  right  now. 

Chantal  had  never  before  felt  that  being  herself  required  effort. 

Or  did  I feel  this  way  the  last  time?  she  thought,  and  then  immediately  wondered. 
What  last  time? 

* * * 


Holding  the  Ghosts 


63 


March  2015 


A new  client  came  for  an  initial  consult.  The  body  sat  dutifully  on  the  couch  in  the 
beige  room. 

“So  this  is  the  surrogate  body  you  have  available?  She  doesn’t  look  much  like  the 
Maxine  Roth  I knew,”  said  the  client,  a Mr.  Ziegler. 

“It  won’t  matter,”  Dr.  Sankaran  assured  him.  “Our  techs  can  modify  Ms.  Roth’s  self- 
perception  so  she  doesn’t  notice  the  disparity.” 

Mr.  Ziegler  placed  a finger  beneath  the  body’s  chin  and  tilted  it  up,  leaning  in  close 
to  examine  her.  “But  other  than  that,  she’ll  be  intact?  Her  knowledge,  her  cognitive 
abilities?” 

Dr.  Sankaran  took  a seat  and  balanced  his  tablet  on  one  knee.  “Our  patented  neuro- 
scanning process  3delds  the  highest  degree  of  fidelity  possible  with  modern  medicine.” 

“You  have  to  understand,  we  have  a trade  show  in  two  months  and  our  chief  engi- 
neer is  dead.  Max  was — I mean,  Ms.  Roth  was  literally  the  only  person  on  the  planet 
who  understood  all  of  the  components  involved  in  our  products.” 

Maxine  Roth  must  have  been  very  smart.  The  body  tried  to  imagine  what  it  would 
be  like  to  carry  Maxine’s  ghost,  but  all  it  could  envision  was  Abby  and  Chantal  and 
the  other  old,  familiar  personalities.  Chantal  knew  a great  deal  about  ancient  Near 
Eastern  civilizations,  and  Abby  liked  marine  biology,  but  the  body  had  never  held  the 
ghost  of  an  engineer  before. 

Dr.  Sankaran  was  saying,  “There  is  the  small  matter  of  Ms.  Roth’s  brain  still  to  be 
dealt  with.  The  scanning  process  is  destructive.  If  we  move  forward,  she  won’t  be  el- 
igible for  cryo-preservation.  You’ll  need  written  consent  from  her  next  of  kin.” 

‘Yes,  yes,  of  course.”  Mr.  Ziegler  dismissed  the  concern  with  a wave  of  his  hand.  “It 
was  all  laid  out  in  her  employment  contract,  and  the  company’s  prepared  to  offer 
generous  compensation  if  her  next  of  kin  have  any  objections.” 

Sankaran  raised  his  eyebrows  at  that,  but  held  his  tongue. 

“Don’t  give  me  that  look,”  said  Ziegler.  “Do  you  have  any  idea  how  important  this 
project  is?  Max’s  work  is  going  to  revolutionize  remote  presence  technology.” 

The  body  considered  this.  Was  being  Abby  important  work?  Or  being  Chantal?  It 
gave  their  loved  ones  comfort,  but  it  produced  nothing  tangible,  and  it  didn’t  last.  I 
would  like  to  do  important  work. 

Hold  on.  The  body  didn’t  know  why  it  used  that  word:  “I.” 

The  body  had  never  worked  late  before.  What  an  odd  sensation — passing  through 
the  drowsy  pull  of  evening  to  a wide-eyed  nocturnal  alertness,  as  if  the  hindbrain 
was  on  watch  against  some  ancient  African  predator.  The  hands  had  a slight  tremor 
thanks  to  Max’s  fourth  cup  of  coffee,  which  irked  her  as  she  tried  to  delicately  ma- 
nipulate the  schematics  holograph.  She  had  spread  out  in  the  conference  room  at  the 
end  of  the  hallway,  and  the  night  seemed  to  seep  in  through  the  large-paned  win- 
dows along  the  far  wall. 

Maxine  was  too  engrossed  in  the  design  specs  to  notice,  but  the  body  heard  footsteps 
behind  it — dress  shoes  scuffing  softly  against  the  industrial  carpet.  A hand  slid  around 
the  waist,  and  the  body  stiffened  before  Max  had  time  to  process  that  it  was  only  Zieg. 

“Don’t  touch  me,”  Chantal  said,  pulling  away  from  him.  Max  shook  her  head,  dis- 
oriented. “I  mean  . . . we  can’t,  you’re  married.” 

Zieg  raised  an  eyebrow.  “That’s  never  stopped  us  before.” 

“I’m  working  late  ’cause  we’ve  got  a deadline  looming,”  she  replied,  scowling.  “Not 
so  you  can  get  a little  something  on  the  side.” 

He  pulled  away  as  if  the  words  had  been  a slap.  “We’re  all  under  pressure  here. 
Max.  You  don’t  have  to  be  such  a moody  bitch  about  it.” 

He  turned  around  and  stormed  out,  slamming  the  flimsy  conference  room  door  as 
he  went.  And  she  was  the  supposedly  moody  one? 


64 


Gwendolyn  Clare 


Asimov's 


Chantal  wondered  what  she’d  ever  seen  in  him. 

Max  massaged  her  temples  and  wondered  what  was  wrong  with  her. 

I have  too  many  ghosts,  the  body  thought. 

Max  stared  into  her  bathroom  mirror.  Same  dark  brown  hair,  same  black-coffee 
irises,  same  low  cheekbones  and  sharp,  straight  bridge  other  nose.  Max  wasn’t  sure 
what  she  was  looking  for,  and  the  body  wondered  what  was  happening  to  them.  She 
ran  her  fingertips  over  her  features,  each  detail  seeming  textbook  accurate  yet  some- 
how leaving  her  with  a hollow  feeling.  Max  knew — ^with  a dry,  mechanical  certain- 
ty— this  was  her  face,  but  she  couldn’t  seem  to  dredge  up  the  proper  emotive 
responses.  Had  teenage  Max  hated  her  eyebrows,  or  yearned  for  a lip  piercing?  She 
couldn’t  recall.  Had  she  ever  wished  she  were  taller?  Thinner?  Prettier?  She  didn’t 
know,  and  asking  those  questions  felt  like  prodding  a toothache  only  to  find  it  inex- 
plicably numb. 

In  Max’s  mind,  the  facts  were  there  but  none  of  the  nuance.  It  was  almost  as  if 
someone  had  programmed  the  memory  of  her  face. 

She  rushed  into  the  kitchen  and  went  straight  for  the  display  screen  built  into  the 
refrigerator  door,  which  showed  a layered  montage  of  photos.  The  screen  cleared 
with  one  sweep  of  her  hand,  and  she  began  sorting  through  the  images  systemati- 
cally, scrutinizing  them  one  at  a time. 

First  was  her  college  roommate  posing  like  Vanna  White  beside  a conference  poster. 
Then  her  Mechanical  Engineering  lab  partners  cramming  themselves  into  the  clown- 
car-sized  solar  vehicle  they’d  just  finished  for  class.  A whole  sequence  from  the  trip  she 
took  to  Europe  with  her  best  friend  after  college:  Shonda  gazing  up  at  the  frescoed  ceil- 
ing of  the  Melk  Abbey  church;  Shonda  eating  real,  fresh  mussels  straight  from  the 
shells;  Shonda  decked  out  in  diving  gear,  ready  to  explore  the  Venice  ruins. 

The  photos  of  Max’s  family  were  organized  with  less  attention  to  the  timeline  of 
events.  Her  brother’s  wedding  came  before  his  twelfth  birthday.  Her  parents  hugged 
at  Dad’s  retirement  party.  Then  a younger  version  of  her  mother  relaxed  in  the  gar- 
den behind  the  house  where  she  grew  up — her  red-haired,  green-eyed  mother. 

Max  scrolled  through  the  photos  faster  and  faster,  a sense  of  unease  seeding  firm- 
ly in  her  gut.  Among  all  the  pictures,  there  wasn’t  a single  image  of  herself  No  em- 
barrassing childhood  candids,  no  drunken  college  selfies,  no  record  of  birthdays  or 
graduations.  The  photos  told  a story  of  a life,  but  there  was  no  evidence  at  all  that 
Max  had  been  present  in  it. 

“No,  no,  no  . . . please,  no  . . .”  she  muttered,  rushing  over  to  her  messenger  bag.  She 
fished  out  her  tablet  before  she  remembered  her  apartment  didn’t  have  wireless, 
then  let  out  a frustrated  huff.  “Seriously?  An  engineer  who  doesn’t  have  a home  net- 
work? Talk  about  a sloppy  cover  up.” 

It  only  took  a minute  to  hack  into  her  neighbor’s  network,  and  then  she  was  scan- 
ning through  the  Palo  Alto  obituaries.  There:  Maxine  Roth,  thirty-one,  died  as  a re- 
sult of  injuries  . . . taken  from  us  too  soon  . . . blah,  blah.  She  slid  the  tablet  away  and 
slumped  back  in  her  chair. 

The  body  felt  swept  away  on  a riptide  of  emotion,  watching  Max’s  grief  and  expe- 
riencing it,  both  observer  and  observed.  I’m  so  sorry. 

Max  slowly  rose  and  padded  back  to  the  bathroom  mirror.  She  stared  into  the 
body’s  eyes.  “Is  there  someone  else  in  here  with  me?” 

Yes. 

“This  . . . isn’t  my  body.” 

No. 

She  paused.  “What  am  I?” 

The  ghost  of  Maxine  Roth. 

Holding  the  Ghosts 


65 


March  2015 

We  let  out  a sharp  breath. 

The  intensity  of  Max’s  revelation  is  too  much.  Is  there  really  only  one  mirror  in  the 
room,  or  are  we  looking  at  ourselves  reflected  back  and  forth,  over  and  over,  stretch- 
ing to  infinity?  I need  Chantal — calm,  practical,  world-wise  Chantal. 

Chantal  breaks  away  from  the  mirror  and  runs  her  hands  down  the  front  of  Max’s 
button-up  shirt,  smoothing  the  wrinkles.  Now  that  the  cat’s  out  of  the  bag,  the  ques- 
tion is,  what  to  do  next?  She  fishes  around  in  Max’s  kitchen  for  a corkscrew  and  a 
bottle  of  red  wine  and  pours  herself  a glass  to  steady  her  nerves  while  she  considers 
the  problem.  Clearly  something  went  wrong  with  the  imprint  process. 

“No  shit,  Sherlock,”  Max  interrupts.  “The  imprints  are  supposed  to  be  completely 
wiped  after  each  assignment.” 

“Well,”  Chantal  says  primly,  “We  can’t  go  back  to  Dr.  Sankaran.  He’ll  just  try  to 
clean  the  slate  a bit  harder.” 

Easier  said  than  done.  We’re  being  monitored. 

Chantal  carries  the  wine  glass  into  Max’s  bedroom  and  sets  it  down  on  the  night- 
stand.  Reaching  into  the  back  of  the  closet,  she  pulls  out  Max’s  hiking  backpack, 
then  begins  to  methodically  pack  what  we’ll  need.  Layerable  clothing  in  neutral  col- 
ors so  as  not  to  draw  attention,  only  the  essential  toiletries,  a handful  of  valuables 
that  can  be  pawned  for  untraceable  credits. 

She  sips  at  the  wine,  finds  a pair  of  scissors,  and  sculpts  long  bangs  that  hang  in 
our  face  to  obscure  our  features.  After  a moment  of  thought,  she  cuts  the  rest  off  at 
chin-length  for  good  measure. 

There’s  still  the  subdermal  tracker  to  deal  with.  Chantal  collects  the  first  aid  kit,  a 
bottle  of  iodine,  and  Max’s  sharpest  folding  knife.  She  tips  the  wine  glass  back  to  get 
the  last  swallow,  then  sterilizes  our  forearm  and  the  blade.  Our  knuckles  turn  white 
as  she  squeezes  the  knife  grip  with  a grim  determination. 

“Let  me,”  says  Abby.  When  Chantal  hesitates,  she  adds,  “When  was  the  last  time 
you  dissected  something?  I got  an  A in  Physiology.” 

Holding  the  knife  with  steady  fingers,  Abby  presses  the  tip  into  our  forearm  just  be- 
low the  tracking  device.  Pain,  and  a welling  of  blood,  and  then  she  deftly  pops  the  track- 
er out.  Abby  applies  a dollop  of  liquid  bandage  and  blows  on  it  to  make  it  harden  faster. 

Max  shoulders  the  knapsack,  takes  us  out  the  back  way  into  an  alley  behind  her 
apartment  complex,  and  steals  her  neighbor’s  Vespa. 

We  drive  around  for  a while,  taking  random  and  sometimes  reckless  turns,  to  be 
certain  the  mobile  monitoring  team  isn’t  following.  No  conspicuous  black  vans  in  our 
mirrors,  though,  so  we  abandon  the  scooter  near  Diridon  Station.  Stopping  at  a 
kiosk,  I let  Abby  pick  out  a pair  of  sunglasses  to  throw  off  any  facial  recognition  soft- 
ware, then  I buy  a ticket  for  the  high-speed  rail. 

I borrow  Abby’s  insouciant  teenage  slouch  as  I settle  into  the  window  seat  and 
wait  for  the  train  to  pull  out.  For  the  first  time  since  Max  discovered  what  I am, 
there  is  nothing  to  do  but  sit  and  ruminate. 

How  many  times  has  John  paid  to  relive  that  vacation  to  the  Bahamas?  Did  Zieg 
scan  Max’s  brain  just  for  professional  reasons,  or  something  more?  In  the  five  years 
since  Abby’s  death,  how  far  have  we  strayed  from  her  original  self? 

Is  this  Abby’s  attitude  of  casual  disregard  I’m  disguising  myself  with,  or  is  it  real- 
ly my  own?  For  so  long  I was  defined  by  the  absence  of  Abby,  the  absence  of  Chantal, 
and  now  the  lines  between  us  are  dissolving  before  my  eyes. 

The  Max  in  me  guesses  that  I must  have  forged  unique  neural  pathways  for 
recording  and  accessing  long-term  memory.  That,  without  knowing  it,  I learned  cog- 
nition and  affect  through  mimicking  the  thought  patterns  of  the  ghosts.  That  a con- 
scious self  emerged  as  a consequence  of  needing  to  integrate  these  neural  processes. 

66  Gwendolyn  Clare 


Asimov's 


With  Abb/s  sense  of  the  ineffable,  I wonder  what  good  it  does  to  understand  how  I 
happened.  Clinical  answers  about  my  past  can’t  tell  me  what  I should  do  with  my  fu- 
ture. Chantal’s  practicahty  reassures  me,  though:  I’ll  take  this  one  careful  step  at  a time. 

I stand  on  the  granite  stoop  and  push  the  doorbell,  and  it  feels  strange  to  not  have 
a key — to  have  to  request  entry  into  such  a familiar  place. 

When  Mrs.  Whitfield  opens  the  door,  her  mouth  hangs  open  for  a moment  before 
she  manages,  “What  are  you — how — ” and  then,  pleadingly,  “. . . Abby?” 

“Yes  and  no,”  I say.  “May  I come  in?” 

She  holds  the  door  open,  watching  me  with  anxious  eyes.  I set  the  backpack  down 
in  the  entryway,  by  habit  choosing  the  same  place  Abby  used  to  throw  hers  down 
when  she  came  home  from  school.  Mrs.  Whitfield  sucks  in  a sharp  breath,  reminded 
of  her  daughter,  and  I immediately  regret  the  too-familiar  motion. 

I smooth  the  front  of  my  shirt,  using  Chantal’s  gesture  for  calming  nerves.  “I  can’t 
stay  long,”  I say,  “but  I wanted  you  to  hear  it  from  me:  I won’t  be  available  as  a sur- 
rogate any  longer.  So  this  is  goodbye.” 

She  takes  in  my  travel  clothes,  my  haircut,  my  well-stuffed  pack.  I can  tell  by  the 
widening  of  her  eyes  exactly  when  she  realizes  that  I’m  running  from  the  people  who 
used  to  own  me.  ‘You’re  . . . stealing  my  daughter?” 

I shake  my  head.  “Death  stole  your  daughter.  Everything  after  that  belongs  to  me 
as  much  as  it  does  to  you.” 

She  presses  her  thumb  into  the  palm  of  her  other  hand,  as  if  tr3dng  to  squeeze  away 
her  grief  “But  you  came  here,  you  remember.  You  . . . you’re  still  imprinted  with  Abby.” 

‘Yes.”  I look  away,  grasping  for  a way  to  explain.  “I’m  not  Abby.  Even  in  the  early 
days,  I was  only  ever  a copy  of  Abby — but  she  did  inspire  me.  Her  ghost  was  the  foun- 
dation upon  which  I built  myself  So  I’ll  always  be  grateful  that  you  shared  her  with 
me,  and  I’ll  always  carry  a part  of  her.  She  lost  her  own  life,  but  she  gave  me  one.” 

“Oh,  God,”  Abby’s  mother  says,  “so  this  is  finally  it.”  She  takes  a deep  breath  to 
steady  the  tremor  in  her  voice.  “What  will  you  do  now?” 

I offer  Chantal’s  soft,  knowing  smile.  “I’m  going  to  live.”  O 


He  passes  by  the  glass  coffin, 
notes  the  silver 

Prince/Glass 

in  his  hair,  more  wealth 
in  his  pocket,  the  offers 
have  flooded  in  for  his  hand. 

His  latest  wife  newly  dead, 
he  seeks  another, 
a princess  as  silent , 
as  the  executioner's  block 

>'  1 

but  younger. 

/ 

No  arguments  that  way. 

/ / 

— Jane  Yolen 

/ / 

67 


INHUMAN 

GARBAGE 

Kristine  Kathryn  Rusch 

"Inhuman  Garbage"  is  a standalone  novella  in  Kristine  Kathryn 
Rusch's  bestselling  Hugo-nominated  Retrieval  Artist  series. 
Most  of  the  novels  in  that  series  standalone  as  well,  but  with 
2011 's  Anniversary  Day,  Kris  started  an  in-series  arc  of  eight 
novels,  all  about  a major  crisis  on  the  Moon.  Blowback  came 
out  in  2012.  The  remaining  books  will  appear  in  2015,  starting 
in  January  with  A Murder  of  Clones,  and  ending  with 
Masterminds  in  June.  The  author  also  writes  under  pen 
names,  including  Kris  Nelscott,  whose  latest  novel  Street 
Justice  appeared  in  2014.  In  addition,  Kris  also  acts  as  series 
editor  for  the  Fiction  River  anthologies. 


□ etective  Noelle  DeRicci  opened  the  top  of  the  waste  crate.  The  smell  of  rotting 
produce  nearly  hid  the  faint  smell  of  urine  and  feces.  A woman’s  body  curled  on  top 
of  the  compost  pile  as  if  she  had  fallen  asleep. 

She  hadn’t,  though.  Her  eyes  were  open. 

DeRicci  couldn’t  see  any  obvious  cause  of  death.  The  woman’s  skin  might  have 
been  copper  colored  when  she  was  alive,  but  death  had  turned  it  sallow.  Her  hair  was 
pulled  back  into  a tight  bun,  undisturbed  by  whatever  killed  her.  She  wore  a gray 
and  tan  pantsuit  that  seemed  more  practical  than  flattering. 

DeRicci  put  the  lid  down  and  resisted  the  urge  to  remove  her  thin  gloves.  They 
itched.  They  always  itched.  Because  she  used  department  gloves  rather  than  buying 
her  own,  and  they  never  fit  properly. 

She  rubbed  her  fingers  together,  as  if  something  from  the  crate  could  have  gotten 
through  the  gloves,  and  turned  around.  Nearly  one  hundred  identical  containers 
lined  up  behind  it.  More  arrived  hourly  from  all  over  Armstrong,  the  largest  city  on 
Earth’s  Moon. 

The  entire  interior  of  the  warehouse  smelled  faintly  of  organic  material  gone 
bad.  She  was  only  in  one  section  of  the  warehouse.  There  were  dozens  of  others, 
and  at  the  end  of  each  was  a conveyer  belt  that  took  the  waste  crates,  mulched 
them,  and  then  sent  the  material  for  use  in  the  Growing  Pits  outside  Armstrong’s 
dome. 

The  crates  were  cleaned  in  a completely  different  section  of  the  warehouse,  and 
then  sent  back  into  the  city  for  reuse. 


68 


Asimov's 


Not  every  business  recycled  its  organic  refuse  for  the  Growing  Pits,  but  almost  all 
of  the  restaurants  and  half  of  the  grocery  stores  did.  DeRicci’s  apartment  building 
sent  organic  food  waste  into  bins  that  came  here  as  well. 

The  owner  of  the  warehouse,  Najib  Ansel,  stood  next  to  the  nearest  row  of  crates. 
He  wore  a blue  smock  over  matching  blue  trousers,  and  blue  booties  on  his  feet.  Blue 
gloves  stuck  out  of  his  pocket,  and  a blue  mask  hung  around  his  neck. 

“How  did  you  find  her?”  DeRicci  asked. 

Ansel  nodded  at  the  ray  of  blue  light  that  hovered  above  the  crate,  then  toed  the  floor. 

“The  weight  was  off,”  he  said.  “The  crate  was  too  heavy.” 

DeRicci  looked  down. 

“I  take  it  you  have  sensors  in  the  floor?”  she  asked. 

“Along  the  orange  line.” 

She  didn’t  see  an  orange  line.  She  moved  slightly,  then  saw  it.  It  really  wasn’t  a 
line,  more  a series  of  orange  rectangles,  long  enough  to  hold  the  crates,  and  too  short 
to  measure  an3rthing  beside  them. 

“So  you  just  lifted  the  lid  . . . .”  DeRicci  started. 

“No,  sir,”  Ansel  said,  using  the  traditional  honorific  for  someone  with  more  authority. 

DeRicci  wasn’t  sure  why  she  had  more  authority.  She  had  looked  him  up  on  her 
way  here.  He  owned  a multimillion-dollar  industry,  which  made  its  fortune  charging 
for  waste  removal  from  the  city  itself,  and  then  reselling  that  waste  at  a low  price  to 
the  Growing  Pits.  She  had  known  this  business  existed,  but  she  hadn’t  paid  a lot  of 
attention  to  it  until  an  hour  ago.  She  had  felt  a shock  of  recognition  when  she  saw 
the  name  of  the  business  in  the  download  that  sent  her  here:  Ansel  Management 
was  scrawled  on  the  side  of  every  waste  container  in  every  recycling  room  in  the  city. 

Najib  Ansel  had  a near  monopoly  in  Armstrong,  and  had  warehouses  in  six  other 
domed  communities.  According  to  her  admittedly  cursory  research,  he  had  filed  for 
permits  to  work  in  two  new  communities  just  this  week.  So  the  fact  that  he  was  in 
standard  worker  gear,  just  like  his  employees,  amazed  her.  She  would  have  thought 
a mogul  like  Ansel  would  be  in  a gigantic  office  somewhere  making  deals,  rather 
than  standing  on  the  floor  of  the  main  warehouse  just  outside  Armstrong’s  dome. 

Even  though  he  used  the  honorific,  he  didn’t  say  anything  more.  Clearly,  Ansel 
was  going  to  make  her  work  for  information. 

“Okay,”  DeRicci  said.  “The  crate  was  too  heavy.  Then  what?” 

“Then  we  activated  the  sensors,  to  see  what  was  inside  the  crate.”  He  looked  up  at 
the  blue  light  again.  Obviously  that  was  the  sensor. 

“Show  me  how  that  works,”  she  said. 

He  rubbed  his  fingers  together — probably  activating  some  kind  of  chip.  The  light 
came  down  and  broadened,  enveloping  the  crate.  Information  flowed  above  it,  most- 
ly in  chemical  compounds  and  other  numbers.  She  was  amazed  she  recognized  that 
the  symbols  were  compounds.  She  wondered  where  she  had  picked  that  up. 

“No  visuals?”  she  asked. 

“Not  right  away.”  He  reached  up  to  the  holographic  display.  The  numbers  kept 
scrolling.  “You  see,  there’s  really  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  here.  Even  her  clothes 
must  be  made  of  some  kind  of  organic  material.  So  my  people  couldn’t  figure  out 
what  was  causing  the  extra  weight.” 

‘You  didn’t  find  this,  then?”  she  asked. 

“No,  sir,”  he  said. 

“I’d  like  to  talk  with  the  person  who  did,”  she  said. 

“She’s  over  there.”  He  nodded  toward  a small  room  off  to  the  side  of  the  crates. 

DeRicci  suppressed  a sigh.  Of  course  he  cleared  the  employee  off  the  floor.  Any- 
thing to  make  a cop’s  job  harder.  “All  right,”  she  said,  not  tr3dng  to  hide  her  annoy- 
ance. “How  did  your  ‘people’  discover  the  extra  weight?” 

Inhuman  Garbage 


69 


March  2015 

“When  the  numbers  didn’t  show  anything,”  he  said,  “they  had  the  system  scan  for  a 
large  piece.  Sometimes,  when  crates  come  in  from  the  dome,  someone  dumps  some- 
thing directly  into  the  crate  without  pa3dng  attention  to  weight  and  size  restrictions.” 

Those  were  hard  to  ignore.  DeRicci  vividly  remembered  the  first  time  she’d  tried  to 
put  something  of  the  wrong  size  into  a recycling  crate.  She’d  dumped  a rotted  roast 
she  had  never  managed  to  cook  (hack  in  the  days  when  she  actually  believed  she 
could  cook).  She’d  placed  it  into  the  crate  behind  her  then-apartment  building.  The 
damn  crate  beeped  at  her,  and  when  she  didn’t  remove  the  roast  fast  enough  for  the 
stupid  thing,  it  had  actually  started  to  yell  at  her,  telling  her  that  she  wasn’t  follow- 
ing the  rules.  There  was  a way  to  turn  off  the  alarms,  but  she  and  her  building  su- 
perintendent hadn’t  known  it.  Clearly,  someone  else  had. 

“So,”  DeRicci  said,  “the  system  scanned,  and  . . . ?” 

“Registered  something  larger,”  he  said  somewhat  primly.  “That’s  when  my  people 
switched  the  information  feed  to  visual,  and  got  the  surprise  of  their  lives.” 

She  would  wager.  She  wondered  if  they  thought  the  woman  was  sleeping.  She 
wasn’t  going  to  ask  him  that  question;  she’d  save  it  for  the  person  who  actually  found 
the  body.  “When  did  they  call  you?”  she  asked. 

“After  they  visually  confirmed  the  body,”  he  said. 

“Meaning  what?”  she  asked.  “They  saw  it  on  the  feed  or  they  actually  lifted  the  lid?” 

“On  the  feed,”  he  said. 

“Where  was  this?”  she  asked. 

He  pointed  to  a small  booth  that  hovered  over  the  floor.  The  booth  clearly  operated 
on  the  same  tech  that  the  fl3dng  cars  in  Armstrong  used.  The  booth  was  smaller  than 
the  average  car,  however,  and  was  clear  on  all  four  sides.  Only  the  bottom  appeared 
to  have  some  kind  of  structure,  probably  to  hide  all  the  mechanics. 

“Is  someone  in  the  booth?”  she  asked. 

“We  always  have  someone  monitoring  the  floor,”  he  said,  “but  I put  someone  new 
up  there,  so  that  the  team  that  discovered  the  body  can  talk  to  you.” 

DeRicci  supposed  he  had  put  the  entire  team  in  one  room,  together,  so  that  they 
could  align  their  stories.  But  she  didn’t  say  anything  like  that.  No  sense  antagoniz- 
ing Ansel.  He  was  helping  her.  “We’re  going  to  need  to  shut  down  this  part  of  your 
line,”  she  said.  “Everything  in  this  part  of  the  warehouse  will  need  to  be  examined.” 

To  her  surprise,  he  didn’t  protest.  Of  course,  if  he  had  protested,  she  would  have 
had  him  shut  down  the  entire  warehouse.  Maybe  he  had  dealt  with  the  police  before. 

“So,”  she  said,  “who  actually  opened  the  lid  on  this  container?” 

“I  did,”  he  said  quietly. 

She  hadn’t  expected  that.  “Tell  me  about  it.” 

“The  staff  contacted  me  after  they  saw  the  body.” 

“On  yoim  links?”  she  asked.  Everyone  had  internal  links  for  communication,  and  the 
links  could  be  set  up  with  varjdng  degrees  of  privacy.  She  would  wager  that  the  entire 
communication  system  inside  Ansel  Management  was  on  its  own  dedicated  link. 

“Yes,”  he  said.  “The  staff  contacted  me  on  my  company  link.” 

“Fd  like  to  have  copies  of  that  contact,”  she  said. 

“Sure.”  He  wasn’t  acting  like  someone  who  had  anything  to  hide.  In  fact,  he  was 
acting  like  someone  who  had  been  through  this  before. 

“What  did  your  staff  tell  you?”  she  asked. 

His  lips  turned  upward.  Someone  might  have  called  that  expression  a smile,  but  it 
wasn’t.  It  was  rueful.  “They  told  me  that  there  was  a woman  in  crate  A1865.” 

DeRicci  made  a mental  note  about  the  number.  Before  this  investigation  was  over, 
she’d  learn  ever3d,hing  about  this  operation,  from  the  crate  numbering  system  to  the 
way  that  the  conveyer  worked  to  the  actual  mulching  process.  “That’s  what  they 
said?”  she  asked.  “A  woman  in  the  crate?” 


70 


Kristine  Kathryn  Rusch 


Asimov's 


“Crate  A1865,”  he  repeated,  as  if  he  wanted  that  detail  to  be  exactly  right. 

“What  did  you  think  when  you  heard  that?”  DeRicci  asked. 

He  shook  his  head,  then  sighed.  “I — we’ve  had  this  happen  before.  Detective.  Not 
for  more  than  a year,  but  we’ve  found  bodies.  Usually  homeless  people  in  the  crates 
near  the  Port,  people  who  came  into  Armstrong  and  can’t  get  out.  Sometimes  we  get 
an  alien  or  two  sleeping  in  the  crates.  The  Oranjanie  view  rotting  produce  as  a luxu- 
ry, and  they  look  human  from  some  angles.” 

The  Port  of  Armstrong  was  the  main  spaceport  onto  the  Moon,  and  also  functioned 
as  the  gateway  to  Earth.  Member  species  of  the  Earth  Alliance  had  to  stop  in  Arm- 
strong first  before  traveling  to  Earth.  Some  travelers  never  made  it  into  Earth’s  pro- 
tected zone,  and  got  stuck  on  the  Moon  itself 

Right  now,  however,  she  had  no  reason  to  suspect  alien  involvement  in  this  crime. 
She  preferred  working  human-on-human  crime.  It  made  the  investigation  so  much 
easier. 

“You’ve  found  human  bodies  in  your  crates  before,”  she  clarified. 

‘Yeah,”  he  said. 

“And  the  police  have  investigated?” 

“All  of  the  bodies,  alien  and  human,”  he  said.  “Different  precincts,  usually,  and  dif- 
ferent time  periods.  My  grandmother  started  this  business  over  a hundred  years  ago. 
She  found  bodies  even  way  back  then.” 

DeRicci  guessed  that  someone  would  think  it  made  sense  to  hide  a body  in  one  of 
the  crates. 

“Do  you  believe  that  bodies  have  gotten  through  the  mulching  process?”  It  took  her 
a lot  of  strength  not  to  look  at  the  conveyer  belt  as  she  asked  that  question. 

“I  don’t  think  a lot  got  through,”  he  said.  “I  know  some  did.  Back  in  my  grand- 
mother’s day.  She’s  the  one  who  set  up  the  safeguards.  We  might  have  had  a few 
glitches  after  the  safeguards  were  in  place,  before  we  knew  how  well  they  worked, 
but  I can  guarantee  nothing  has  gone  through  since  I started  managing  this  compa- 
ny twenty-five  years  ago.” 

DeRicci  tried  not  to  shudder  as  she  thought  about  human  flesh  serving  as  compost 
at  the  Growing  Pits.  She  hated  Moon-grown  food,  and  she  had  a hunch  she  was  going 
to  hate  it  more  after  this  case. 

But  she  had  to  keep  asking  questions. 

‘You  said  you  can  guarantee  it,”  she  repeated. 

He  nodded. 

“What  if  someone  cut  up  the  body?”  she  asked. 

He  grimaced.  “The  pieces  would  have  to  be  small  to  get  past  our  weight  and  size 
restrictions.  Forgive  me  for  being  graphic,  but  no  full  arms  or  legs  or  torsos  or  heads. 
Maybe  fingers  and  toes.  We  have  nanoprobes  on  these  things,  looking  for  human 
DNA.  But  the  probes  are  coating  the  lining  of  the  crates.  If  someone  buried  a finger 
in  the  middle  of  some  rotting  lettuce,  we  might  miss  it.” 

She  turned  so  that  he  wouldn’t  see  her  reaction.  She  forced  herself  to  swallow  some 
bile  back,  and  wished  she  had  some  savings.  She  wanted  to  go  home  and  purge  her  re- 
frigerator of  anything  grown  on  the  Moon,  and  buy  expensive  Earth-grown  produce. 

But  she  couldn’t  afford  that,  not  on  a detective’s  salary. 

“Fair  enough,”  she  said,  surprised  she  could  sound  so  calm  when  she  was  so  thor- 
oughly grossed  out.  “No  full  bodies  have  gone  through  in  at  least  twenty-five  years. 
But  you’ve  seen  quite  a few.  How  many?” 

“I  don’t  know,”  he  said.  “I’d  have  to  check  the  records.” 

That  surprised  her.  It  meant  there  were  enough  that  he  couldn’t  keep  track.  “Any 
place  where  they  show  up  the  most  often?” 

“The  Port,”  he  said.  “There’s  a lot  of  homeless  in  that  neighborhood.” 

Inhuman  Garbage 


71 


March  2015 


Technically,  they  weren’t  homeless.  They  were  people  who  lived  on  the  city’s  char- 
ity. A lot  of  small  cubicle  sized  rooms  existed  on  the  Port  blocks,  and  anyone  who 
couldn’t  afford  their  own  home  or  ended  up  stranded  and  unemployable  in  the  city 
could  stay  in  one  of  the  cubicles  for  six  months,  no  questions  asked. 

After  six  months,  they  needed  to  move  to  long-term  city  services,  which  were 
housed  elsewhere.  She  wanted  to  ask  if  anyone  had  turned  up  in  those  neighbor- 
hoods, but  she’d  do  that  after  she  looked  at  his  records. 

“Fm  confused,”  she  said.  “Do  these  people  crawl  into  the  crates  and  die?”  The  crate 
didn’t  look  like  it  was  sealed  so  tightly  that  the  person  couldn’t  get  oxygen. 

“Some  of  them,”  he  said.  “They’re  usually  high  or  drunk.” 

“And  the  rest?”  she  asked. 

“Obviously  someone  has  put  them  there,”  he  said. 

“A  different  someone  each  time,  I assume,”  she  said. 

He  shrugged.  “I  let  the  police  investigate.  I don’t  ask  questions.” 

“You  don’t  ask  questions  about  dead  people  in  your  crates?” 

His  face  flushed.  She  had  finally  gotten  to  him. 

“Believe  it  or  not.  Detective,”  he  snapped,  “I  don’t  like  to  think  about  it.  Fm  very 
proud  of  this  business.  We  provide  a service  that  enables  the  cities  on  the  Moon  to 
not  only  have  food,  but  to  have  great  food.  Sometimes  our  system  gets  fouled  up  by 
crazy  people,  and  I hate  that.  We’ve  gone  to  great  lengths  to  prevent  it.  That’s  why 
you’re  here.  Because  our  systems  work.” 

“I  didn’t  mean  to  offend  you,”  she  lied.  “This  is  all  new  to  me,  so  Fm  going  to  ask 
some  very  ignorant  questions  at  times.” 

He  looked  annoyed,  but  he  nodded. 

“What  part  of  town  did  this  crate  come  from?”  she  asked. 

“The  Port,”  he  said  tiredly. 

She  should  have  expected  that,  after  he  had  mentioned  the  Port  a few  times. 

“Was  the  body  in  the  crate  when  it  was  picked  up  at  the  Port?”  she  asked. 

“The  weight  was  the  same  from  Port  to  here,”  he  said.  “Weight  gets  recorded  at 
pick-up,  but  flagged  near  the  conveyer.  The  entire  system  is  automated  until  the 
crates  get  to  the  warehouse.  Besides,  we  don’t  have  the  ability  to  investigate  any- 
thing inside  Armstrong.  There  are  a lot  of  regulations  on  objects  that  are  consid- 
ered garbage  inside  the  dome.  If  we  violate  those,  we’ll  get  black  marks  against 
our  license,  and  if  we  get  too  many  black  marks  in  a year,  we  could  lose  that  li- 
cense.” 

More  stuff  she  didn’t  know.  City  stuff,  regulatory  stuff  The  kinds  of  things  she  al- 
ways ignored.  And  things  she  would  probably  have  to  investigate  now. 

“Do  you  know  her?”  DeRicci  asked,  hoping  to  catch  him  off  balance. 

“Her?”  He  looked  confused  for  a moment.  Then  he  looked  at  the  crate,  and  his 
flush  grew  deeper.  “You  mean,  herT’ 

‘Yes,”  DeRicci  said.  Just  from  his  reaction  she  knew  his  response.  He  didn’t  know 
the  woman.  And  the  idea  that  she  was  inside  one  of  his  crates  upset  him  more  than 
he  wanted  to  say.  Which  was  probably  why  he  was  the  person  talking  to  DeRicci  now. 

“No,”  he  said.  “I  don’t  know  her,  and  I don’t  recognize  her.  We  didn’t  run  any  recog- 
nition programs  on  her  either.  We  figured  you  all  would  do  that.” 

“No  one  touched  her?  No  one  checked  her  for  identification  chips?” 

“Fm  the  one  who  opened  the  crate,”  he  said.  “I  saw  her,  I saw  that  her  eyes  were 
open,  and  then  I closed  the  lid.  I leave  the  identifying  to  you  all.” 

“Do  you  know  all  your  employees,  Mr.  Ansel?” 

“By  name,”  he  said. 

“By  look,”  she  said. 

He  shook  his  head.  “I  have  nearly  three  hundred  employees  in  Armstrong  alone.” 

72  Kristine  Kathryn  Rusch 


Asimov's 

“But  you  just  said  you  know  their  names.  You  know  all  three  hundred  employees 
by  name?” 

He  smiled  absently,  which  seemed  like  a rote  response.  He’d  responded  to  this  kind 
of  thing  before. 

“I  have  an  eidetic  memory,”  he  said.  “If  I’ve  seen  a name,  then  I remember  it.” 

“An  eidetic  memory  for  names,  but  not  faces?  I’ve  never  heard  of  that,”  DeRicci  said. 

“I  haven’t  met  all  of  my  employees,”  he  said.  “But  I go  over  the  pay  amounts  every 
week  before  they  get  sent  to  the  employees’  accounts.  I see  the  names.  I rarely  see  the 
faces.” 

“So  you  wouldn’t  know  if  she  worked  here,”  DeRicci  said. 

“Here?”  he  asked.  “Here  I would  know.  I come  here  every  day.  If  she  worked  in  one 
of  the  other  warehouses  or  in  transport  or  in  sales,  I wouldn’t  know  that.” 

“Did  this  crate  go  somewhere  else  before  coming  to  this  warehouse?”  DeRicci 
asked. 

“No,”  Ansel  said.  “Each  crate  is  assigned  a number.  That  number  puts  it  in  a loca- 
tion, and  then  when  the  crate  fills,  it  gets  swapped  out  with  another.  The  crate  comes 
to  the  same  warehouse  each  time,  without  deviation.  And  since  that  system  is  auto- 
mated, as  I mentioned,  I know  that  it  doesn’t  go  awry.” 

“Can  someone  stop  the  crate  in  transit  and  add  a body?” 

“No,”  he  said.  “I  can  show  you  if  you  want.” 

She  shook  her  head.  That  would  be  a good  job  for  her  partner,  Rayvon  Lake. 
Ra3rvon  still  hadn’t  arrived,  the  bastard.  DeRicci  would  have  to  report  him  pretty 
soon.  He  had  gotten  very  lax  about  crime  scenes,  leaving  them  to  her.  He  left  most 
everything  to  her,  and  she  hated  it. 

He  was  a lazy  detective — twenty  years  in  the  position — and  he  saw  her  as  an  up- 
start who  needed  to  be  put  in  her  place.  She  wouldn’t  have  minded  if  he  did  his  job. 
Well,  that  wasn’t  exactly  true.  She  would  have  minded.  She  hated  people  who  dis- 
liked her.  But  she  wouldn’t  be  considering  filing  a report  on  him  if  he  actually  did 
the  work  he  was  supposed  to  do. 

She  would  get  Lake  to  handle  the  transport  information  by  telling  him  she  wasn’t 
smart  enough  to  understand  it.  It  would  mean  that  she’d  have  to  suffer  through  an 
explanation  later  in  the  case,  but  maybe  by  then  she’d  either  have  this  thing  solved 
or  she’d  have  a new  partner.  A woman  could  hope,  after  all. 

“One  of  the  other  detectives  will  look  into  the  transport  process,”  DeRicci  said.  “I’m 
just  trying  to  cover  the  basics  here,  so  we  start  looking  in  the  right  place.  Can  out- 
siders come  into  this  warehouse?” 

“And  get  into  one  of  our  crates?”  Ansel  asked.  “No.  Look.” 

He  touched  the  edge  of  the  lid,  and  she  heard  a loud  snap. 

“It’s  sealed  shut  now,”  he  said. 

She  didn’t  like  the  sound  of  that  snap. 

“If  I were  in  there,”  she  asked,  “could  I breathe  through  that  seal?” 

‘Yes,”  he  said.  “For  about  two  days,  if  need  be.  But  it  doesn’t  seal  shut  like  that  un- 
til it  leaves  the  transport  and  crosses  the  threshold  here  at  the  warehouse.  So  there’s 
no  way  anyone  could  crawl  in  here  at  the  warehouse.” 

“All  right,”  DeRicci  said.  “So,  let  me  be  sure  I understand  you.  The  only  place  that 
someone  could  either  place  a body  into  a crate  or  crawl  into  it  on  their  own  is  on  site.” 

‘Yes,”  Ansel  said.  “We  try  to  encourage  composting,  so  we  allow  bypassers  to  stuff 
something  into  a crate.  We  search  for  non-organic  material  at  the  site,  and  flag  the 
crates  with  non-organic  material  so  they  can  be  cleaned.” 

“Clothing  is  organic?”  DeRicci  asked. 

“Much  of  it,  yes,”  Ansel  said.  “Synthetics  aren’t  good  hosts  for  nanoproducts,  so 
most  people  wear  clothing  made  from  recycled  organic  material.” 

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DeRicci’s  skin  literally  crawled.  She  hadn’t  known  that.  She  wasn’t  an  organic 
kind  of  woman.  She  preferred  fake  stuff,  much  to  the  dismay  of  her  friends. 

“All  right,”  she  said.  “I’m  going  to  talk  with  your  people  in  a minute.  I’ll  want  to 
know  what  they  know.  And  I’ll  need  to  see  your  records  on  previous  incidents.” 

She  didn’t  check  to  see  if  he  had  sent  her  an3rthing  on  her  links.  She  didn’t  want 
downloads  to  confuse  her  sense  of  the  crime  scene.  She  liked  to  form  her  own  opin- 
ions, and  she  did  that  by  being  thorough. 

Detectives  like  Ra3won  Lake  gathered  as  much  information  as  possible,  multi- 
tasking as  they  walked  through  a crime  scene.  She  believed  they  missed  most  of  the 
important  details  while  doing  that,  and  that  led  to  a lot  of  side  roads  and  wasted 
time.  And,  if  she  could  prove  it  (if  she  had  time  to  prove  it),  a lot  of  false  convictions. 
She  had  caught  Lake  twice  trying  to  close  a case  by  accusing  an  innocent  person  who 
was  convenient,  rather  than  doing  the  hard  legwork  required  of  a good  investigator. 

Ansel  fluttered  near  her  for  a moment.  She  inclined  her  head  toward  the  room 
where  the  staff  had  gathered,  knowing  she  was  inviting  him  to  contaminate  her  wit- 
nesses even  more,  but  she  had  a hunch  none  of  them  were  going  to  be  useful  to  the 
investigation  anyway.  “Before  you  go,”  she  said,  just  in  case  he  didn’t  take  the  hint, 
“could  you  unseal  this  crate  for  me?” 

“Oh,  yes,  sorry,”  he  said,  and  ran  his  fingers  along  the  side  again.  It  snapped  one 
more  time,  then  popped  up  slightly. 

DeRicci  thanked  him,  and  pulled  back  the  lid.  The  crate  was  deep — up  to  DeRic- 
ci’s ribs — and  filled  with  unidentifiable  bits  of  rotting  food.  The  woman  lay  on  top  of 
them,  hands  cradled  under  her  cheek,  feet  tucked  together.  DeRicci  couldn’t  imagine 
anyone  just  curling  up  here,  even  at  the  bidding  of  someone  else.  But  people  did 
strange  things  for  strange  reasons,  and  she  wasn’t  going  to  rule  it  out. 

She  put  the  lid  down  and  then  looked  at  the  warehouse  again.  She  would  need  the 
numbers,  but  she  suspected  thousands  of  crates  went  through  Ansel’s  facilities 
around  the  Moon  daily.  Done  properly,  the  crates  would  be  a perfect  way  to  dispose  of 
bodies  and  all  kinds  of  other  things  that  no  one  wanted  to  see.  She  wondered  how 
many  others  knew  about  this  facility  and  how  it  worked. 

She  suspected  she  would  have  to  find  out. 

Getting  the  crime  scene  unit  to  a warehouse  outside  of  the  dome  took  more  work 
than  Ethan  Broduer  liked  to  do.  Fortunately,  he  was  a deputy  coroner,  which  meant 
he  couldn’t  control  the  crime  scene  unit.  Someone  with  more  seniority  had  to  handle 
requisitioning  the  right  vehicle  from  the  police  department  yards  outside  the  dome, 
and  making  certain  the  team  had  the  right  equipment. 

Broduer  came  to  the  warehouse  via  train.  The  ride  was  only  five  minutes  long,  but 
it  made  him  nervous.  He  was  born  inside  the  dome,  and  he  hated  leaving  it  for  any 
reason  at  all,  especially  for  a reason  involving  work.  So  much  of  his  work  had  to  do 
with  temperature  and  conditions,  and  if  the  body  had  been  in  an  airless  environment 
at  all,  it  had  an  impact  on  every  aspect  of  his  job. 

He  was  relieved  when  he  arrived  at  the  warehouse  and  learned  that  the  body  had 
never  gone  outside  of  an  Earth  Normal  environment.  However,  he  was  annoyed  to 
see  that  he  would  be  working  with  Noelle  DeRicci.  She  was  notoriously  difficult  and 
demanding,  and  often  asked  coroners  to  redo  something  or  double-check  their  find- 
ings. She’d  caught  him  in  several  mistakes,  which  he  found  embarrassing.  Then  she 
had  had  the  gall  to  tell  him  that  he  should  probably  double-check  all  of  his  work,  con- 
sidering its  shoddy  quality. 

She  stood  next  to  a crate,  the  only  one  of  thousands  that  was  open.  She  was  rum- 
pled— she  was  always  rumpled — and  her  curly  black  hair  looked  messier  than  usual. 

When  she  saw  him  approach,  she  glared  at  him. 


74 


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Asimov's 


“Oh,  lucky  me,”  she  said. 

Broduer  bit  back  a response.  He’d  been  recording  everything  since  he  got  off  the 
train  inside  the  warehouse’s  private  platform,  and  he  didn’t  want  to  show  any  ani- 
mosity toward  DeRicci  on  an3d,hing  that  might  go  to  court. 

“Just  show  me  the  body  and  I’ll  get  to  work,”  he  said. 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  at  the  word  “work,”  and  she  didn’t  have  to  add  an3d,hing 
to  convey  her  meaning.  She  didn’t  think  Broduer  worked  at  all. 

“My  biggest  priority  at  the  moment  is  an  identification,”  DeRicci  said. 

And  his  biggest  priority  was  to  do  this  investigation  right.  But  he  didn’t  say  that.  In- 
stead he  looked  at  the  dozens  of  crates  spread  out  before  him.  “Which  one  am  I dealing 
with?”  he  asked,  pleased  that  he  could  sound  so  calm  in  the  face  of  her  rudeness. 

She  placed  a hand  on  the  crate  behind  her.  He  was  pleased  to  see  that  she  wore 
gloves.  He  had  worked  with  her  partner  Rayvon  Lake  before,  and  Lake  had  to  be  re- 
minded to  follow  any  kind  of  procedure.  But  Broduer  didn’t  see  Lake  anywhere. 

“Have  you  had  cases  involving  the  waste  crates  before?”  DeRicci  asked  Broduer. 

“No,”  he  said,  not  adding  that  he  tried  to  pass  anything  outside  the  dome  on  to  anyone 
else,  “but  I’ve  heard  about  cases  involving  them.  I guess  they’re  not  that  uncommon.” 

“Hmm,”  she  said  looking  toward  a room  at  the  far  end  of  the  large  warehouse.  “And 
here  I thought  they  were.” 

Broduer  was  going  to  argue  his  point  when  he  realized  that  DeRicci  wasn’t  talk- 
ing to  him  now.  She  was  arguing  with  someone  she  had  already  spoken  to. 

“Can  you  get  me  information  on  that?”  DeRicci  asked  Broduer. 

He  hated  it  when  detectives  wanted  him  to  do  their  work  for  them.  “It’s  in  the 
records.” 

DeRicci  made  a low,  growly  sound,  like  he  had  irritated  her  beyond  measure. 

So  he  decided  to  tweak  her  a bit  more.  “Just  search  for  warehouses  and  recycling 
and  crates — ” 

“I  know,”  she  said.  “I  was  hoping  your  office  already  had  statistics.” 

“I’m  sure  we  do,  Detective,”  he  said,  moving  past  her,  “but  you  want  me  to  figure 
out  what  killed  this  poor  creature,  right?  Not  dig  into  old  cases.” 

“I  think  the  old  cases  might  be  relevant,”  she  said. 

He  shrugged.  He  didn’t  care  what  was  or  wasn’t  relevant  to  her  investigation.  His 
priority  was  dealing  with  this  body.  “Excuse  me,”  he  said,  and  slipped  on  his  favorite 
pair  of  gloves.  Then  he  raised  the  lid  on  the  crate. 

The  woman  inside  was  maybe  thirty.  She  had  been  pretty,  too,  before  her  eyes  had 
filmed  over  and  her  cheeks  sunk  in.  She  had  clearly  died  in  an  Earth  Normal  envi- 
ronment, and  she  hadn’t  left  that  environment,  as  advertised.  He  would  have  to  do 
some  research  to  figure  out  if  the  presence  of  rotting  food  had  an  impact  on  the 
bod/s  decomposition,  but  that  was  something  to  worry  about  later. 

Then  Broduer  glanced  up.  “I’ll  have  information  for  you  in  a while,”  he  said  to  De- 
Ricci. 

“Just  give  me  a name,”  she  said.  “We  haven’t  traced  anything.” 

He  didn’t  want  to  move  the  body  yet.  He  didn’t  even  want  to  touch  it,  because  he 
was  afraid  of  disturbing  some  important  evidence. 

The  corpse’s  hands  were  tucked  under  her  head,  so  he  couldn’t  just  run  the  identi- 
fication chips  everyone  had  buried  in  their  palms.  He  used  the  coroner’s  office  facial 
recognition  program  instead.  It  had  a record  of  every  single  human  who  lived  in 
Armstrong,  and  was  constantly  updated  with  information  from  the  arrivals  and  de- 
partures sections  of  the  city  every  single  day. 

“Initial  results  show  that  her  name  is  Sonja  Mycenae.  She  was  born  here,  and 
moved  off-Moon  with  her  family  ten  years  ago.  She  returned  last  month  to  work  as  a 
nanny  for  . . .” 

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He  paused,  stunned  at  the  name  that  turned  up. 

“For?”  DeRicci  pushed. 

Broduer  looked  up.  He  could  feel  the  color  draining  from  his  face. 

“Luc  Deshin,”  he  said  quietly.  “She  works  for  Luc  Deshin.” 

Luc  Deshin. 

DeRicci  hadn’t  expected  that  name. 

Luc  Deshin  ran  a corporation  called  Deshin  Enterprises  that  the  police  department 
flagged  and  monitored  continually.  Everyone  in  Armstrong  knew  that  Deshtn  controlled 
a huge  crime  syndicate  that  trafficked  in  all  sorts  of  illegal  and  banned  substances. 
The  bulk  of  Deshin’s  business  had  moved  off-Moon,  but  he  had  gotten  his  start  as  an 
average  street  thug,  rising,  as  those  kids  often  do,  through  murder  and  targeted  assas- 
sination into  a position  of  power,  using  the  deaths  of  others  to  advance  his  own  career. 

“Luc  Deshin  needed  a nanny?”  DeRicci  sounded  confused. 

“He  married  a few  years  ago,”  Broduer  said,  as  he  bent  over  the  body  again.  “I 
guess  they  had  kids.” 

“And  didn’t  like  the  nanny.”  DeRicci  whistled.  “Talk  about  a high  stress  job.” 

She  glanced  at  that  room  filled  with  the  employees  who’d  found  the  body.  There 
was  a lot  of  work  to  be  done  here,  but  none  of  it  was  as  important  as  catching  Deshin 
by  surprise  with  this  investigation.  If  he’d  killed  this  Sonja  Mycenae,  then  he  would 
be  expecting  the  police’s  appearance.  But  he  might  not  expect  them  so  soon. 

Or  maybe  he  had  always  used  the  waste  crates  to  dump  his  bodies.  No  one  had 
ever  been  able  to  pin  a murder  on  him.  Perhaps  this  was  why. 

She  needed  to  leave.  But  before  she  did,  she  sent  a message  to  Lake.  Only  she  sent 
it  using  the  standard  police  links,  not  the  encoded  link  any  other  officer  would  use 
with  her  partner.  She  wanted  it  on  record  that  Lake  hadn’t  shown  up  yet. 

Rayvon,  you  need  to  get  here  ASAP.  There  are  employees  to  interview.  I’m  following 
a lead,  but  someone  has  to  supervise  the  crime  scene  unit.  Deputy  Coroner  Broduer  is 
here,  but  he  doesn’t  have  supervisory  authority. 

She  didn’t  wait  for  Lake’s  response.  Before  he  said  anything,  she  sent  another  mes- 
sage to  her  immediate  supervisor.  Chief  of  Detectives  Andrea  Gumiela,  this  time 
through  an  encoded  private  link. 

This  case  has  ties  to  Deshin  Enterprises,  DeRicci  senL  I’m  going  there  now,  but  we 
need  a good  team  on  this.  It’s  not  some  random  death.  It  needs  to  be  done  perfectly.  Be- 
tween Broduer  and  Lake,  we’re  off  to  a bad  start. 

She  didn’t  wait  for  Gumiela  to  respond  either.  In  fact,  after  sending  that  message, 
DeRicci  shut  off  all  but  her  emergency  links.  She  didn’t  want  Gumiela  to  tell  her  to 
stay  on  site,  and  she  didn’t  want  to  hear  Lake’s  invective  when  he  realized  she  had 
essentially  chastised  him  in  front  of  the  entire  department. 

“Make  sure  no  one  leaves,”  DeRicci  said  to  Broduer. 

He  looked  up,  panicked.  “I  don’t  have  the  authority.” 

“Pretend,”  she  snapped,  and  walked  away  from  him. 

She  needed  to  get  to  Luc  Deshin,  and  she  needed  to  get  to  him  now. 

Luc  Deshin  grabbed  his  long-waisted  overcoat  and  headed  down  the  stairs.  So  a 
police  detective  wanted  to  meet  with  him.  He  wished  he  found  such  events  unusual. 
But  they  weren’t.  The  police  liked  to  harass  him.  Less  now  than  in  the  past.  They’d 
had  a frustrating  time  pinning  an3d.hing  on  him. 

He  always  found  it  ironic  that  the  crimes  they  accused  him  of  were  crimes  he’d 
never  think  of  committing,  and  the  crimes  he  had  committed — long  ago  and  far 
away — were  crimes  they  had  never  heard  of  Now,  all  of  his  activities  were  legal. 
Just-inside-the-law  legal,  but  legal  nonetheless.  Or  so  his  cadre  of  lawyers  kept 

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telling  the  local  courts,  and  the  local  judges — at  least  the  ones  he  would  find  himself 
in  front  of — always  believed  his  lawyers. 

So,  a meeting  like  this,  coming  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  was  an  annoyance,  and 
nothing  more. 

He  used  his  trip  down  the  stairs  to  stay  in  shape.  His  office  was  a penthouse  on 
the  top  floor  of  the  building  he’d  built  to  house  Deshin  Enterprises  years  ago.  He 
used  to  love  that  office,  but  he  liked  it  less  since  he  and  his  wife  Gerda  brought  a 
baby  into  their  lives. 

He  smiled  at  the  thought  of  Paavo.  They  had  adopted  him — sort  of  They  had 
drawn  up  some  legal  papers  and  wills  that  the  lawyers  assured  him  would  stand  any 
challenge  should  he  and  Gerda  die  suddenly.  But  Deshin  and  Gerda  had  decided 
against  an  actual  adoption  given  Deshin’s  business  practices  and  his  reputation  in 
Armstrong.  They  were  worried  that  some  judge  would  deem  them  unfit,  based  on 
Deshin’s  reputation. 

Plus,  Paavo  was  the  child  of  two  Disappeareds,  making  the  adoption  situation  even 
more  difficult.  The  Earth  Alliance’s  insistence  that  local  laws  prevailed  when  crimes 
were  committed  meant  that  humans  were  often  subjected  to  alien  laws,  laws  that 
made  no  sense  at  all.  Many  humans  didn’t  like  being  forced  to  lose  a limb  as  punish- 
ment for  chopping  down  an  exotic  tree,  or  giving  up  a child  because  they’d  broken 
food  laws  on  a different  planet.  Those  who  could  afford  to  get  new  names  and  new 
identities  did  so  rather  than  accept  their  punishment  under  Earth  Alliance  law. 
Those  people  Disappeared. 

Paavo’s  parents  had  Disappeared  within  weeks  of  his  birth,  leaving  him  to  face 
whatever  legal  threat  those  aliens  could  dream  up. 

Paavo,  alone,  at  four  months. 

Fortunately,  Deshin  and  Gerda  had  sources  inside  Armstrong’s  family  services, 
which  they  had  cultivated  for  just  this  sort  of  reason.  Both  Deshin  and  Gerda  had  had 
difficult  childhoods — to  say  the  least.  They  knew  what  it  was  like  to  be  unwanted. 

Their  initial  plan  had  been  to  bring  several  unwanted  children  into  their  home, 
but  after  they  met  Paavo,  a brilliant  baby  with  his  own  special  needs,  they  decided  to 
put  that  plan  on  hold.  If  they  could  only  save  Paavo,  that  would  be  enough. 

But  they  were  just  a month  into  life  with  the  baby,  and  they  knew  that  any  more 
children  would  take  a focus  that,  at  the  moment  at  least,  Paavo’s  needs  wouldn’t  al- 
low. 

Deshin  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairwell,  ran  a hand  through  his  hair,  and  then 
walked  through  the  double  doors.  His  staff  kept  the  detective  in  the  lobby. 

She  was  immediately  obvious,  even  though  she  wasn’t  in  uniform.  A slightly  di- 
sheveled woman  with  curly  black  hair  and  a sharp,  intelligent  face,  she  wasn’t  look- 
ing around  like  she  was  supposed  to.  Most  new  visitors  to  Deshin  Enterprises  either 
pretended  to  be  unimpressed  with  the  real  marble  floors,  the  imported  wood  panel- 
ing, and  the  artwork  that  constantly  shifted  on  the  walls  and  ceiling.  Or  the  visitors 
gaped  openly  at  all  of  it. 

This  detective  did  neither.  Instead,  she  scanned  the  people  in  the  lobby — all  staff, 
all  there  to  guard  him  and  keep  an  eye  on  her. 

She  would  be  difficult.  He  could  tell  that  just  from  her  body  language.  He  wasn’t 
used  to  dealing  with  someone  from  the  Armstrong  Police  Department  who  was  in- 
telligent and  difficult  to  impress. 

He  walked  toward  her,  and  as  he  reached  her,  he  extended  his  hand.  “Detective,” 
he  said  warmly.  “I’m  Luc  Deshin.” 

She  wiped  her  hands  on  her  stained  shirt,  and  just  as  he  thought  she  was  going  to 
take  his  hand  in  greeting,  she  shoved  hers  into  the  pockets  of  her  ill-fitting  black  pants. 

“I  know  who  you  are,”  she  said. 

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She  deliberately  failed  to  introduce  herself,  probably  as  a power  play.  He  could 
play  back,  ask  to  see  the  badge  chip  embedded  in  the  palm  of  her  hand,  but  he  didn’t 
feel  like  playing.  She  had  already  wasted  enough  of  his  time. 

So  he  took  her  name,  Noelle  DeRicci,  from  the  building’s  security  records,  and  de- 
clined to  look  at  her  service  record.  He  had  it  if  he  needed  it. 

“What  can  I do  for  you  then.  Detective?”  He  was  going  to  charm  her,  even  if  that 
took  a bit  of  strength  to  ignore  the  games. 

“I’d  like  to  speak  somewhere  private,”  she  said. 

He  smiled.  “No  one  is  near  us,  and  we  have  no  recording  devices  in  this  part  of  the 
lobby.  If  you  like,  we  can  go  outside.  There’s  a lovely  coffee  shop  across  the  street.” 

Her  eyes  narrowed.  He  watched  her  think:  did  she  ask  to  go  to  his  office  and  get 
denied,  or  did  she  just  play  along? 

“The  privacy  is  for  you,”  she  said,  “but  okay  . . . .” 

She  sounded  dubious,  a nice  little  trick.  A less  secure  man  would  then  invite  her  into 
the  office.  Deshin  waited.  He’d  learned  that  middle  managers — and  that  was  what  de- 
tectives truly  were — always  felt  the  press  of  time.  He  never  had  enough  time  for  any- 
thing and  yet,  as  the  head  of  his  own  corporation,  he  also  had  all  the  time  in  the  universe. 

“Fm  here  about  Sonja  Mycenae,”  she  said. 

Sonja.  The  nanny  he  had  fired  just  that  morning.  Well,  fired  wasn’t  an  accurate 
term.  He  had  deliberately  avoided  firing  her.  He  had  eliminated  her  position. 

He  and  Gerda  had  decided  that  Sonja  wasn’t  affectionate  enough  toward  their  son. 
In  fact,  she  had  seemed  a bit  cold  toward  him.  And  once  Deshin  and  Gerda  started 
that  conversation  about  Sonja’s  attitudes,  they  realized  they  didn’t  like  having  some- 
one visit  their  home  every  day,  and  they  didn’t  like  giving  up  any  time  with  Paavo. 

Both  Gerda  and  Deshin  had  worried,  due  to  their  backgrounds,  that  they  wouldn’t 
know  how  to  nurture  a baby;  Sonja  had  taught  them  that  training  mattered  a lot 
less  than  actual  love. 

“I  understand  she  works  for  you,”  the  detective  said. 

“She  worked  for  me,”  he  said. 

Something  changed  in  the  detective’s  face.  Something  small.  He  felt  uneasy  for  the 
first  time. 

“Tell  me  what  this  is  about.  Detective,”  he  said. 

“It’s  about  Sonja  Mycenae,”  she  repeated. 

“Yes,  you  said  that.  What  exactly  has  she  done?”  he  asked. 

“Why  don’t  you  tell  me  why  she  no  longer  works  for  you,”  the  detective  said. 

“My  wife  and  I decided  that  we  didn’t  need  a nanny  for  our  son.  I called  Sonja  to 
the  office  this  morning,  and  let  her  know  that,  effective  immediately,  her  employ- 
ment was  terminated  through  no  fault  of  her  own.” 

“Do  you  have  footage  of  that  conversation?”  the  detective  asked. 

“I  do,  and  it’s  protected.  You’ll  need  permission  from  both  of  us  or  a warrant  before 
I can  give  it  to  you.” 

The  detective  raised  her  eyebrows.  “I’m  sure  you  can  forgo  the  formalities,  Mr. 
Deshin.” 

“Fm  sure  that  many  people  do.  Detective,”  he  said,  “however,  it’s  my  understand- 
ing that  an  employee’s  records  are  confidential.  You  may  get  a warrant  if  you  like. 
Otherwise,  Fm  going  to  protect  Sonja’s  privacy.” 

“Why  would  you  do  that,  Mr.  Deshin?” 

“Believe  it  or  not,  I follow  the  rules.”  He  managed  to  say  that  without  sarcasm. 

The  detective  grunted  as  if  she  didn’t  believe  him.  “What  made  you  decide  to  ter- 
minate her  position  today?” 

“I  told  you,”  Deshin  said,  keeping  his  voice  bland  even  though  he  was  getting  an- 
noyed. “My  wife  and  I decided  we  didn’t  need  a nanny  to  help  us  raise  our  son.” 

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“You  might  want  to  share  that  footage  with  me  without  wasting  time  on  a war- 
rant, Mr.  Deshin,”  the  detective  said. 

“Why  would  I do  that.  Detective?  I’m  not  even  sure  why  you’re  asking  about  Sonja. 
What  has  she  done?” 

“She  has  died,  Mr.  Deshin.” 

The  words  hung  between  them.  He  frowned.  The  detective  had  finally  caught  him 
off  guard.  For  the  first  time,  he  did  not  know  how  to  respond.  He  probably  needed 
one  of  his  lawyers  here.  Any  time  his  name  came  up  in  an  investigation,  he  was  au- 
tomatically the  first  suspect.  But  in  this  case,  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  Sonja’s 
death.  So  he  would  act  accordingly,  and  let  the  lawyers  handle  the  mess. 

“What  happened?”  he  asked  softly. 

He  had  known  Sonja  since  she  was  a child.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a friend.  That 
was  one  of  the  many  reasons  he  had  hired  her,  because  he  knew  her. 

Even  then,  she  hadn’t  turned  out  as  expected.  He  remembered  an  affectionate, 
happy  girl.  The  nanny  who  had  come  to  his  house  didn’t  seem  to  know  how  to  smile 
at  all.  There  had  been  no  affection  in  her. 

And  when  he  last  saw  her,  she’d  been  crying  and  pleading  with  him  to  keep  her 
job.  He  actually  had  to  have  security  drag  her  out  of  his  office. 

“We  don’t  know  what  happened,”  the  detective  said. 

That  sentence  could  mean  a lot.  It  could  mean  that  they  didn’t  know  what  hap- 
pened at  all  or  that  they  didn’t  know  if  her  death  was  by  natural  causes  or  by  mur- 
der. It  could  also  mean  that  they  didn’t  know  exactly  what  or  who  caused  the  death, 
but  that  they  suspected  murder.  Since  he  was  facing  a detective  and  not  a beat  offi- 
cer, he  knew  they  suspected  murder. 

“Where  did  it  happen?”  Deshin  asked. 

“We  don’t  know  that  either,”  the  detective  said. 

He  snapped,  “Then  how  do  you  know  she’s  dead?” 

Again,  that  slight  change  in  the  detective’s  face.  Apparently  he  had  finally  hit  on 
the  correct  question. 

“Because  workers  found  her  in  a waste  crate  in  a warehouse  outside  the  dome.” 

“Outside  the  dome  . . . ?”That  didn’t  make  sense  to  him.  Sonja  hadn’t  even  owned  an 
environmental  suit.  She  had  hated  them  with  a passion.  “She  died  outside  the  dome?” 

“I  didn’t  say  that,  Mr.  Deshin,”  the  detective  said. 

He  let  out  a breath.  “Look,  Detective,  I’m  cooperating  here,  but  you  need  to  work 
with  me.  I saw  Sonja  this  morning,  eliminated  her  position,  and  watched  her  leave 
my  office.  Then  I went  to  work.  I haven’t  gone  out  of  the  building  all  day.” 

“But  your  people  have,”  the  detective  said. 

He  felt  a thin  thread  of  fury,  and  he  suppressed  it.  Everyone  assumed  that  his  peo- 
ple murdered  other  people  according  to  some  whim.  That  simply  was  not  true. 

“Detective,”  he  said  calmly.  “If  I wanted  Sonja  dead,  why  would  I terminate  her  em- 
ployment this  morning?” 

“I  have  only  your  word  for  that,”  the  detective  said.  “Unless  you  give  me  the 
footage.” 

“And  I have  only  your  word  that  she’s  dead,”  he  said. 

The  detective  pressed  her  hands  together,  then  separated  them.  A hologram  ap- 
peared between  them — a young  woman,  looking  as  if  she  had  fallen  asleep  in  a 
meadow.  Until  he  looked  closely,  and  saw  that  the  “meadow”  was  bits  of  food,  and  the 
young  woman’s  eyes  were  open  and  filmy. 

It  was  Sonja. 

“My  God,”  he  said. 

“If  you  give  me  the  footage,”  the  detective  said,  “and  it  confirms  what  you  say,  then 
you’ll  be  in  the  clear.  If  you  wait,  then  we’re  going  to  assume  it  was  doctored.” 

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Deshin  glared  at  her.  She  was  good — and  she  was  right.  The  longer  he  waited,  the 
less  credibility  he  would  have.  “I’m  going  to  consult  with  my  attorneys,”  he  said.  “If 
they  believe  that  this  information  has  use  to  you  and  it  doesn’t  cause  me  any  legal  li- 
abilities, then  you  will  receive  it  from  them  within  the  hour.” 

The  detective  crossed  her  arms.  “I  suggest  that  you  send  it  to  me  now.  I will 
promise  you  that  I will  not  look  at  anything  until  you  or  your  attorneys  say  that  I 
can.” 

It  was  an  odd  compromise,  but  one  that  would  protect  him.  If  she  believed  he  would 
doctor  the  footage,  then  having  the  footage  in  her  possession  wouldn’t  harm  him. 

But  he  didn’t  know  the  laws  on  something  this  arcane. 

“How’s  this.  Detective,”  he  said.  “My  staff  will  give  you  a chip  with  the  information 
on  it.  You  may  not  put  the  chip  into  any  device  or  watch  it  until  I’ve  consulted  with 
my  attorneys.  You  will  wait  here  while  I do  so.” 

“Seems  fine  to  me,”  the  detective  said.  “I’ve  got  all  the  time  in  the  world.” 

She  didn’t,  of  course.  DeRicci  was  probably  getting  all  kinds  of  messages  on  her 
links  from  Lake  and  Gumiela  and  Broduer  and  everyone  else,  telling  her  she  was 
stupid  or  needed  or  something. 

She  didn’t  care.  She  certainly  wasn’t  going  to  turn  her  links  back  on.  She  was  close  to 
something.  She  had  actually  surprised  the  Great  Luc  Deshin,  Criminal  Mastermind. 

He  pivoted  and  moved  three  steps  away  from  her.  He  was  clearly  contacting  some- 
one on  his  links,  but  using  private  encoded  ones. 

A staff  member  approached,  a woman  DeRicci  hadn’t  seen  before.  The  woman, 
dressed  in  a black  suit,  extended  a hand  covered  with  gold  rings. 

“If  you’ll  come  this  way.  Detective  DeRicci . . . .” 

DeRicci  shook  her  head.  “Mr.  Deshin  promised  me  a chip.  I’m  sta3dng  here  until  I 
get  it.” 

The  woman  opened  her  other  hand.  In  it  was  a chip  case  the  size  of  a thumbnail. 
The  case  was  clear,  and  inside,  DeRicci  saw  another  case — blue,  with  a filament 
thinner  than  an  eyelash. 

“Here  is  your  chip.  Detective,”  the  woman  said.  “I’ve  been  instructed  to  take  you — ” 

“I  don’t  care,”  DeRicci  said.  “I’ll  take  the  chip,  and  I’ll  wait  right  here.  You  have  my 
word  that  I won’t  open  either  case,  and  I won’t  watch  an3rthing  until  I get  the  okay.” 

The  woman’s  eyes  glazed  slightly.  Clearly,  she  was  seeing  if  that  was  all  right. 

Then  she  focused  on  DeRicci,  and  bowed  her  head  slightly. 

“As  you  wish.  Detective.” 

She  handed  DeRicci  the  case.  It  was  heavier  than  it  looked.  It  probably  had  a lot  of 
protections  built  in,  so  that  she  couldn’t  activate  anything  through  the  case.  Not  that 
she  had  the  technical  ability  to  do  any  of  that,  even  if  she  wanted  to. 

She  sighed.  She  had  a fluttery  feeling  that  she  had  just  been  outmaneuvered. 

Then  she  made  herself  watch  Deshin.  He  seemed  truly  distressed  at  the  news  of 
Sonja  Mycenae’s  death.  If  DeRicci  had  to  put  money  on  it,  she  would  say  that  he 
hadn’t  known  she  was  dead  and  he  hadn’t  ordered  the  death.  But  he  was  also  well 
known  for  his  business  acumen,  his  criminal  savvy,  and  his  ability  to  beat  a clear 
case  against  him.  A man  didn’t  get  a reputation  like  that  by  being  easy  to  read. 

She  closed  her  fist  around  the  chip  case,  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  back,  and 
waited,  watching  Luc  Deshin  the  entire  time. 

Deshin  hadn’t  gone  far.  He  wanted  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  detective.  He’d  learned  in 
the  past  that  police  officers  had  a tendency  to  wander  and  observe  things  they 
shouldn’t.  He  had  staff  in  various  parts  of  the  lobby  to  prevent  the  detective  from  doing 
just  that. 


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Through  private,  encoded  links,  he  had  contacted  his  favorite  attorney,  Martin 
Oberholtz.  For  eight  years,  Oberholtz  had  managed  the  most  delicate  cases  for 
Deshin — always  knowing  how  far  the  law  could  bend  before  it  broke. 

Before  I tell  you  what  to  do,  Oberholtz  was  saying  on  their  link,  I want  to  see  the 
footage. 

It’ll  take  time,  Deshin  sent. 

Ach,  Oberholtz  sent.  I’ll  just  bill  you  for  it.  Send  it  to  me. 

I already  have.  Deshin  sent. 

I’ll  be  in  contact  shortly,  Oberholtz  sent,  and  signed  off. 

Deshin  walked  to  the  other  side  of  the  lobby.  He  didn’t  want  to  vanish  because  he 
didn’t  want  the  detective  to  think  he  was  doing  something  nefarious. 

But  he  was  unsettled.  That  meeting  with  Sonja  had  not  gone  as  he  expected. 

Over  the  years.  Deshin  had  probably  fired  two  hundred  people  personally,  and  his 
staff  had  fired  even  more.  And  that  didn’t  count  the  business  relationships  he  had 
terminated.  Doing  unpleasant  things  didn’t  bother  him.  They  usually  followed  a pat- 
tern. But  the  meeting  that  morning  hadn’t  followed  a pattern  that  he  recognized. 

He  had  spoken  quite  calmly  to  Sonja,  telling  her  that  he  and  Gerda  had  decided 
to  raise  Paavo  without  help.  He  hadn’t  criticized  Sonja  at  all.  In  fact,  he  had 
promised  her  a reference  if  she  wanted  it,  and  he  had  complimented  her  on  the 
record,  saying  that  her  presence  had  given  him  and  Gerda  the  confidence  to  handle 
Paavo  alone. 

He  hadn’t  said  that  the  confidence  had  come  from  the  fact  that  Sonja  had  years  of 
training  and  she  missed  the  essential  ingredient — affection.  He  had  kept  everything 
as  neutral  and  positive  as  possible,  given  that  he  was  effectively  firing  her  without 
firing  her. 

Midway  through  his  little  speech,  her  eyes  widened.  He  had  thought  she  was  going 
to  burst  into  tears.  Instead,  she  put  a shaking  hand  to  her  mouth,  looking  like  she 
had  just  received  news  that  everything  she  loved  in  the  world  was  going  to  be  taken 
away  from  her. 

He  had  a moment  of  confusion — had  she  actually  cared  that  much  about  Paavo? — 
and  then  he  decided  it  didn’t  matter;  he  and  Gerda  really  did  want  to  raise  the  boy 
on  their  own,  without  any  outside  help. 

“Mr.  Deshin,”  Sonja  had  said  when  he  finished.  “Please,  I beg  you,  do  not  fire  me.” 

“I’m  not  firing  you,  Sonja,”  he  had  said.  “I  just  don’t  have  a job  for  you  any  longer.” 

“Please,”  she  said.  “I  will  work  here.  I will  do  an3d.hing,  the  lowest  of  the  low.  I will 
do  jobs  that  are  disgusting  or  frightening,  anything,  Mr.  Deshin.  Please.  Just  don’t 
make  me  leave.” 

He  had  never  had  an  employee  beg  so  strenuously  to  keep  her  job.  It  unnerved 
him.  “I  don’t  have  any  work  for  you.” 

“Please,  Mr.  Deshin.”  She  reached  for  him  and  he  leaned  back.  “Please.  Don’t  make 
me  leave.” 

That  was  when  he  sent  a message  along  his  links  to  security.  This  woman  was 
crazy,  and  no  one  on  his  staff  had  picked  up  on  it.  He  felt  both  relieved  and  appalled. 
Relieved  that  she  was  going  nowhere  near  Paavo  again,  and  appalled  that  he  had 
left  his  beloved  little  son  in  her  care. 

The  door  opened,  and  then  Sonja  screamed  “No!”  at  the  top  of  her  lungs.  She 
grabbed  at  Deshin,  and  one  of  his  security  people  pulled  her  away. 

She  kicked  and  fought  and  screamed  and  cried  all  the  way  through  the  door.  It 
closed  behind  her,  leaving  him  alone,  but  he  could  still  hear  her  yelling  all  the  way  to 
the  elevator. 

The  incident  had  unsettled  him. 

It  still  unsettled  him. 

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And  now,  just  a few  hours  later,  Sonja  was  dead. 

That  couldn’t  be  a coincidence. 

It  couldn’t  be  a coincidence  at  all. 

It  took  nearly  fifteen  minutes  before  Luc  Deshin  returned.  DeRicci  had  watched 
him  pace  on  the  other  side  of  the  lobby,  his  expression  grim. 

It  was  still  grim  when  he  reached  her. 

He  nodded  at  the  chip  in  her  hand.  “My  staff  tells  me  that  you  have  a lot  of  infor- 
mation on  that  chip.  In  addition  to  the  meeting  in  my  office,  you’ll  see  Sonja’s  arrival 
and  her  departure.  You’ll  also  see  that  she  left  through  that  front  door.  After  she  dis- 
appeared off  our  external  security  cameras,  no  one  on  my  staff  saw  her  again.” 

He  was  being  very  precise.  DeRicci  figured  his  lawyer  had  told  him  to  do  that. 

“Thank  you,”  she  said,  closing  her  fingers  around  the  case.  “I  appreciate  the  coop- 
eration.” 

‘You’re  welcome,”  Deshin  said,  then  walked  away. 

She  watched  him  go.  Something  about  his  mood  had  darkened  since  she’d  origi- 
nally spoken  to  him.  Because  of  the  lawyer?  Or  something  else? 

It  didn’t  matter.  She  had  the  information  she  needed,  at  least  for  the  moment.  She 
would  deal  with  Deshin  later  if  she  needed  to. 

Deshin  took  the  stairs  back  to  his  office.  He  needed  to  think,  and  he  didn’t  want  to 
run  into  any  of  his  staff  on  the  elevator.  Besides,  exercise  kept  his  head  clear. 

He  had  thought  Sonja  crazy  after  her  reaction  in  his  office.  But  what  if  she  knew 
her  life  was  in  danger  if  she  left  his  employ?  Then  her  behavior  made  sense.  He 
wasn’t  going  to  say  that  to  the  detective,  nor  had  he  mentioned  it  to  his  lawyer. 
Deshin  was  going  to  investigate  this  himself 

As  he  reached  the  top  floor,  he  sent  a message  to  his  head  of  security,  Otto  Koos: 
My  office.  Now. 

Deshin  went  through  the  doors  and  stopped,  as  he  always  did,  looking  at  the  view. 
He  had  a 360-degree  view  of  the  City  of  Armstrong.  Right  now,  the  dome  was  set  at 
Dome  Daylight,  mimicking  midday  sunlight  on  Earth.  He  loved  the  look  of  Dome 
Daylight  because  it  put  buildings  all  over  the  city  in  such  clear  light  that  it  made 
them  look  like  a beautiful  painting  or  a holographic  wall  image. 

He  crossed  to  his  desk  and  called  up  the  file  on  Sonja  Mycenae,  looking  for  any- 
thing untoward,  an3rthing  his  staff  might  have  missed. 

He  saw  nothing. 

She  had  worked  for  a family  on  Earth  who  had  filed  monthly  reports  with  the  nan- 
ny service  that  had  vetted  her.  The  reports  were  excellent.  Sonja  had  then  left  the 
family  to  come  to  the  Moon,  because,  apparently,  she  had  been  homesick. 

He  couldn’t  find  an3rthing  in  a cursory  search  of  that  file  that  showed  any  contra- 
dictory information. 

The  door  to  his  office  opened,  and  Koos  entered.  He  was  a short  man  with  broad 
shoulders  and  a way  of  walking  that  made  him  look  like  he  was  itching  for  a fight. 

Deshin  had  known  him  since  they  were  boys,  and  trusted  Koos  with  his  life.  Koos 
had  saved  that  life  more  than  once. 

“Sonja  was  murdered  after  she  left  us  this  morning,”  Deshin  said. 

Koos  glanced  at  the  door.  “So  that  was  why  Armstrong  PD  was  here.” 

‘Yeah,”  Deshin  said,  “and  it  clarifies  her  reaction.  She  knew  something  bad  would 
happen  to  her.” 

“She  was  a plant,”  Koos  said. 

“Or  something,”  Deshin  said.  “We  need  to  know  why.  Did  anyone  follow  her  after 
she  left?” 


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“You  didn’t  order  us  to,”  Koos  said,  “and  I saw  no  reason  to  keep  track  of  her.  She 
was  cr3dng  pretty  hard  when  she  walked  out,  but  she  never  looked  back  and  as  far  as 
I could  tell,  no  one  was  after  her.” 

“The  police  are  going  to  trace  her  movements,”  Deshin  said.  “We  need  to  as  well. 
But  what  I want  to  know  is  this:  What  did  we  miss  about  this  woman?  I’ve  already 
checked  her  file.  I see  nothing  unusual.” 

“I’ll  go  over  it  again,”  Koos  said. 

“Don’t  go  over  it,”  Deshin  said,  feeling  a little  annoyed.  After  all,  he  had  just  done 
that,  and  he  didn’t  need  to  be  double-checked.  “Vet  her  again,  as  if  we  were  just  about 
to  hire  her.  See  what  you  come  up  with.” 

‘Yes,  sir,”  Koos  said.  Normally,  he  would  have  left  after  that,  but  he  didn’t.  Instead, 
he  held  his  position. 

Deshin  suppressed  a sigh.  Something  else  was  coming  his  way.  “What?” 

“When  you  dismissed  her  and  she  reacted  badly,”  Koos  said,  “I  increased  security 
around  your  wife  and  child.  I’m  going  to  increase  it  again,  and  I’m  going  to  make 
sure  you’ve  got  extra  protection  as  well.” 

Deshin  opened  his  mouth,  but  Koos  put  up  one  finger,  stopping  him. 

“Don’t  argue  with  me,”  Koos  said.  “Something’s  going  on  here,  and  I don’t  like  it.” 

Deshin  smiled.  “I  wasn’t  going  to  argue  with  you,  Otto.  I was  going  to  thank  you.  I 
hadn’t  thought  to  increase  security  around  my  family,  and  it  makes  sense.” 

Koos  nodded,  as  if  Deshin’s  praise  embarrassed  him.  Then  he  left  the  office. 

Deshin  watched  him  go.  As  soon  as  he  was  gone.  Deshin  contacted  Gerda  on  their 
private  link.  Koos  might  have  increased  security,  but  Deshin  wanted  to  make  sure 
everything  was  all  right. 

He  used  to  say  that  families  were  a weakness,  and  he  never  wanted  one.  Then  he 
met  Gerda,  and  they  brought  Paavo  into  their  lives. 

He  realized  that  families  were  a weakness,  but  they  were  a strength  as  well. 

And  he  was  going  to  make  sure  his  was  safe,  no  matter  what  it  took. 

It  had  taken  more  work  than  Broduer  expected  to  get  the  body  back  to  the  coroner’s 
office.  Just  to  get  the  stupid  crate  out  of  the  warehouse,  he’d  had  to  sign  documenta- 
tion swearing  he  wouldn’t  use  it  to  make  money  at  the  expense  of  Ansel  Management. 

“Company  policy,”  Najib  Ansel  had  said  with  an  insincere  smile. 

If  Broduer  hadn’t  known  better,  he  would  have  thought  that  Ansel  was  just  tr3dng 
to  make  things  difficult  for  him. 

But  things  had  become  difficult  for  Broduer  when  DeRicci’s  partner,  Rayvon  Lake,  ar- 
rived. Lake  had  been  as  angry  as  Broduer  had  ever  seen  him,  claiming  that  DeRicci — 
who  was  apparently  a junior  officer  to  Lake — had  been  giving  him  orders. 

Lake  had  shouted  at  everyone  except  Broduer.  Broduer  had  fended  a shouting 
match  off  by  holding  up  his  hands  and  saying,  “I’m  not  sure  what  killed  this  girl,  but 
I don’t  like  it.  It  might  contaminate  ever3d;hing.  We  have  to  get  her  out  of  here,  now.” 

Lake,  who  was  a notorious  germaphobe  (which  Broduer  found  strange  in  a detec- 
tive), had  gulped  and  stepped  back.  Broduer  had  gotten  the  crate  to  the  warehouse 
door  before  Ansel  had  come  after  him  with  all  the  documentation  crap.  Maybe  Ansel 
had  done  it  just  so  that  he  wouldn’t  have  to  talk  with  Lake.  Broduer  would  have 
done  anything  to  avoid  Lake — and  apparently  just  had. 

Broduer  smiled  to  himself,  relieved  to  be  back  at  the  coroner’s  office.  The  office  was 
a misnomer — the  coroners  had  their  own  building,  divided  into  sections  to  deal  with 
the  various  kinds  of  death  that  happened  in  Armstrong. 

Broduer  had  tested  out  of  the  alien  section  after  two  years  of  trying.  He  hated 
working  in  an  environmental  suit,  like  he  so  often  had  to.  Weirdly  (he  always 
thought),  humans  started  in  the  alien  section  and  had  to  get  a promotion  to  work  on 

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human  cadavers.  Probably  because  no  one  really  wanted  to  see  the  interior  of  a Se- 
quev  more  than  once.  No  human  did,  anyway. 

There  were  over  a dozen  alien  coroners,  most  of  whom  worked  with  human  super- 
visors, since  many  alien  cultures  did  not  investigate  cause  of  death.  Armstrong  was  a 
human-run  society  on  a human-run  Moon,  so  human  laws  applied  here,  and  human 
laws  always  needed  a cause  of  death. 

Broduer  had  placed  Sonja  Mycenae  on  the  autopsy  table,  carefully  positioning  her 
before  beginning  work,  and  he’d  been  startled  at  how  well  proportioned  she  was. 
Most  people  had  obvious  flaws,  at  least  when  a coroner  was  looking  at  them.  One 
arm  a little  too  long,  a roll  of  fat  under  the  chin,  a misshapen  ankle. 

He  hadn’t  removed  her  clothing  yet,  but  as  far  as  he  could  tell  from  the  work  he’d 
done  with  her  already,  nothing  was  unusual.  Which  made  her  unusual  all  by  itself 

He  also  couldn’t  see  any  obvious  cause  of  death.  He  had  noted,  however,  that  full 
rigor  mortis  had  already  set  in.  Which  was  odd,  since  the  decomposition,  according 
to  the  exam  his  nanobots  had  already  started,  seemed  to  have  progressed  at  a rate 
that  put  her  death  at  least  five  hours  earlier.  By  now,  under  the  conditions  she’d 
been  stored  in,  she  should  have  still  been  pliable — at  least  her  limbs.  Rigor  began  in 
the  eyes,  jaw,  and  neck,  then  spread  to  the  face  and  through  the  chest  before  getting 
to  the  limbs.  The  fingers  and  toes  were  always  the  last  to  stiffen  up. 

That  made  him  suspicious,  particularly  since  liver  mortis  also  seemed  off 

He  would  have  thought,  given  how  long  she  had  been  curled  inside  that  crate,  that 
the  blood  would  have  pooled  in  the  side  of  her  body  resting  on  top  of  the  compost 
heap.  But  no  blood  had  pooled  at  all. 

He  had  bots  move  the  autopsy  table  into  one  of  the  more  advanced  autopsy  the- 
aters. He  wanted  every  single  device  he  could  find  to  do  the  work. 

He  suspected  she’d  been  killed  with  some  kind  of  hardening  poison.  They  had  be- 
come truly  popular  with  assassins  in  the  last  two  decades,  and  had  just  recently 
been  banned  from  the  Moon.  Hardening  poisons  killed  quickly  by  absorbing  all  the 
liquid  in  the  body  and/or  by  baking  it  into  place.  It  was  a fast  death,  but  a painful 
one,  and  usually  the  victim’s  muscles  froze  in  place,  so  she  couldn’t  even  express  that 
pain  as  it  occurred. 

He  put  on  a high-grade  environmental  suit  in  an  excess  of  caution.  Some  of  the  hard- 
ening poisons  leaked  out  of  the  pores  and  then  infected  anyone  who  touched  them. 

What  he  had  to  determine  was  if  Sonja  Mycenae  had  died  of  one  of  those,  and  if 
her  body  had  been  placed  in  a waste  crate  not  just  to  hide  the  corpse,  but  to  infect 
the  food  supply  in  Armstrong.  Because  the  Growing  Pits  inspections  looked  at  the 
growing  materials — the  soil,  the  water,  the  light,  the  atmosphere,  and  the  seeds.  The 
inspectors  would  also  look  at  the  fertilizer,  but  if  it  came  from  a certified  organiza- 
tion like  Ansel  Management,  then  there  would  only  be  a cursory  search  of  materials. 

Hardening  poisons  could  thread  their  way  into  the  DNA  of  a plant — just  a little 
bit,  so  that,  say,  an  apple  wouldn’t  be  quite  as  juicy.  A little  hardening  poison 
wouldn’t  really  hurt  the  fruit  of  a tree  (although  that  tree  might  eventually  die  of 
what  a botanist  would  consider  a wasting  disease),  but  a trace  of  hardening  poison  in 
the  human  system  would  have  an  impact  over  time.  And  if  the  human  continued  to 
eat  things  with  hardening  poisons  in  them,  the  poisons  would  build  up,  until  the 
body  couldn’t  take  it  any  more. 

A person  poisoned  in  that  way  wouldn’t  die  like  Sonja  Mycenae  had;  instead,  the 
poison  would  overwhelm  the  standard  nanohealers  that  everyone  had  installed,  that 
person  would  get  sick,  and  their  organs  would  slowly  fail.  Armstrong  would  have  a 
plague  but  not  necessarily  know  what  caused  it. 

He  double-checked  his  gloves,  then  let  out  a breath.  Yes,  he  knew  he  was  being 
paranoid.  But  he  thought  about  these  things  a lot — the  kinds  of  death  that  could 

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happen  with  just  a bit  of  carelessness,  like  sickness  in  a dome,  poison  through  the 
food  supply,  the  wrong  mix  in  the  air  supply.  He  had  moved  from  working  with  living 
humans  to  working  with  the  dead  primarily  because  his  imagination  was  so  vivid. 
Usually  working  with  the  dead  calmed  him.  The  regular  march  of  unremarkable 
deaths  reminded  him  that  most  people  would  die  of  natural  causes  after  a hundred 
fifty  or  more  years,  maybe  longer  if  they  took  good  care  of  themselves. 

Working  with  the  dead  usually  gave  him  hope. 

But  Sonja  Mycenae  was  making  him  nervous. 

And  he  didn’t  like  that  at  all. 

Deshin  had  just  finished  talking  with  Gerda  when  Koos  sent  him  an  encoded 
message: 

Need  to  talk  as  soon  as  you  can. 

Now’s  fine,  Deshin  sent. 

He  moved  away  from  the  windows,  where  he’d  been  standing  as  he  made  sure  Ger- 
da was  okay.  She  actually  sounded  happy,  which  she  hadn’t  ever  since  Paavo  had 
moved  in. 

She  said  she  no  longer  felt  like  her  every  move  was  being  judged. 

Paavo  seemed  happier  too.  He  wasn’t  crying  as  much,  and  he  didn’t  cling  as  hard 
to  Gerda.  Instead,  he  played  with  a mobile  from  his  bouncy  chair  and  watched  her 
cook,  cooing  most  of  the  time.  Just  that  one  report  made  Deshin  feel  like  he  had 
made  the  right  choice  with  Sonja. 

Not  that  he  had  had  a doubt — at  least  about  her — after  her  reaction  that  morning. 
But  apparently  a tiny  doubt  had  lingered  about  whether  or  not  he  and  Gerda  need- 
ed the  help  of  a nanny.  Gerda’s  report  on  Paavo’s  calmness  eased  that.  Deshin  knew 
they  would  have  hard  times  ahead — he  wasn’t  deluding  himself — but  he  also  knew 
that  they  had  made  the  right  choice  to  go  nanny-free. 

He  hadn’t  told  Gerda  what  happened  to  Sonja,  and  he  wouldn’t,  until  he  knew 
more.  He  didn’t  want  to  spoil  Gerda’s  day. 

The  door  to  Deshin’s  office  opened,  and  Koos  entered,  looking  upset.  “Upset”  was 
actually  the  wrong  word.  Something  about  Koos  made  Deshin  think  the  man  was 
afraid.  Then  Deshin  shook  that  thought  off:  he’d  seen  Koos  in  extremely  dangerous 
circumstances  and  the  man  had  never  seemed  afraid. 

“I  did  what  you  asked,”  Koos  said  without  preamble.  “I  started  vetting  her  all  over 
again.” 

Deshin  leaned  against  the  desk,  just  like  he  had  done  when  he  spoke  to  Sonja. 
“And?” 

“Her  employers  on  Earth  are  still  filing  updates  about  her  exemplary  work  for 
them.” 

Deshin  felt  a chill.  “Tell  me  that  they  were  just  behind  in  their  reports.” 

Koos  shook  his  head.  “She’s  still  working  for  them.” 

“How  is  that  possible?”  Deshin  asked.  “We  vetted  her.  We  even  used  a DNA  sample 
to  make  sure  her  DNA  was  the  same  as  the  DNA  on  file  with  the  service.  And  we  col- 
lected it  ourselves.” 

Koos  swallowed.  “We  used  the  service’s  matching  program.” 

“Of  course  we  did,”  Deshin  said.  “They  were  the  ones  with  the  DNA  on  file.” 

“We  could  have  requested  that  sample,  and  then  run  it  ourselves.” 

That  chill  Deshin  had  felt  became  a full-fledged  shiver.  “What’s  the  difference?” 

“Depth,”  Koos  said.  “They  don’t  go  into  the  same  kind  of  depth  we  would  go  into  in 
our  search.  They  just  look  at  standard  markers,  which  is  really  all  most  people  would 
need  to  confirm  identity.” 

His  phrasing  made  Deshin  uncomfortable.  “She’s  not  who  she  said  she  was?” 

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Koos  let  out  a small  sigh.  “It’s  more  complicated  than  that.” 

More  complicated.  Deshin  shifted.  He  could  only  think  of  one  thing  that  would  be 
more  complicated. 

Sonja  was  a clone. 

And  that  created  all  kinds  of  other  issues. 

But  first,  he  had  to  confirm  his  suspicion. 

“You  checked  for  clone  marks,  right?”  Deshin  asked.  “I  know  you  did.  We  always  do.” 

The  Earth  Alliance  required  human  clones  to  have  a mark  on  the  back  of  their 
neck  or  behind  their  ear  that  gave  their  number.  If  they  were  the  second  clone  from 
an  original,  the  number  would  be  “2.” 

Clones  also  did  not  have  birth  certificates.  They  had  day  of  creation  documents. 
Deshin  had  a strict  policy  for  Deshin  Enterprises:  every  person  he  hired  had  to  have  a 
birth  certificate  or  a document  showing  that  they,  as  a clone,  had  been  legally  adopt- 
ed by  an  original  human  and  therefore  could  be  considered  human  under  the  law. 

When  it  came  to  human  clones.  Earth  Alliance  and  Armstrong  laws  were  the 
same:  clones  were  property.  They  were  created  and  owned  by  their  creator.  They 
could  be  bought  or  sold,  and  they  had  no  rights  of  their  own.  The  law  did  not  distin- 
guish between  slow-grow  clones,  which  were  raised  like  any  naturally  bom  human 
child,  and  fast-grow  clones,  which  reached  full  adult  size  in  days,  but  never  had  a 
full-grown  human  intelligence.  The  laws  were  an  injustice,  but  only  clones  seemed 
to  protest  it,  and  they,  as  property,  had  no  real  standing. 

Koos’s  lips  thinned.  He  didn’t  answer  right  away. 

Deshin  cursed.  He  hated  having  clones  in  his  business,  and  didn’t  own  any,  even 
though  he  could  take  advantage  of  the  loopholes  in  the  law. 

Clones  made  identity  theft  too  easy,  and  made  an  organization  vulnerable. 

He  always  made  certain  his  organization  remained  protected. 

Or  he  had,  until  now. 

“We  did  check  like  we  do  with  every  new  hire.”  Koos’s  voice  was  strangled.  “And  we 
also  checked  her  birth  certificate.  It  was  all  in  order.” 

“But  now  you’re  telling  me  it’s  not,”  Deshin  said. 

Koos’s  eyes  narrowed  a little,  not  with  anger,  but  with  tension. 

“The  first  snag  we  hit,”  he  said,  “was  that  we  were  not  able  to  get  Sonja  Mycenae’s 
DNA  from  the  service.  According  to  them,  she’s  currently  employed,  and  not  avail- 
able for  hire,  so  the  standard  service-subsidized  searches  are  inactive.  She  likes  her 
job.  I looked:  the  job  is  the  old  one,  not  the  one  with  you.” 

Deshin  crossed  his  arms.  “If  that’s  the  case,  then  how  did  we  get  the  service  com- 
parison in  the  first  place?” 

“At  first,  I worried  that  someone  had  spoofed  our  system,”  Koos  said.  “They  hadn’t. 
There  was  a redundancy  in  the  service’s  files  that  got  repaired.  I checked  with  a tech 
at  the  service.  The  tech  said  they’d  been  hit  with  an  attack  that  replicated  everything 
inside  their  system.  It  lasted  for  about  two  days.” 

“Let  me  guess,”  Deshin  said.  “Two  days  around  the  point  we  hired  Sonja.” 

Koos  nodded. 

“Fm  amazed  the  tech  admitted  it,”  Deshin  said. 

“It  wasn’t  their  glitch,”  Koos  said.  “It  happened  because  of  some  government  pro- 
gram.” 

“Government?”  Deshin  asked. 

“The  Earth  Alliance  required  some  changes  in  their  software,”  Koos  said.  “They 
made  the  changes  and  the  glitch  appeared.  The  service  caught  it,  removed  the  Earth 
Alliance  changes,  and  petitioned  to  return  to  their  old  way  of  doing  things.  Their  pe- 
tition was  granted.” 

Deshin  couldn’t  sit  still  with  this.  “Did  Sonja  know  this  glitch  was  going  to  happen?” 

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Asimov's 


Koos  shrugged.  “I  don’t  know  what  she  knew.” 

Deshin  let  out  a small  breath.  He  felt  a little  off-balance.  “I  assume  the  birth  cer- 
tificate was  stolen.” 

“It  was  real.  We  checked  it.  I double-checked  it  today,”  Koos  said. 

Deshin  rubbed  his  forehead.  “So,  was  the  Sonja  Mycenae  I hired  a clone  or  is  the 
clone  at  the  other  job?  Or  does  Sonja  Mycenae  have  a biological  twin?” 

Koos  looked  down,  which  was  all  the  answer  Deshin  needed.  She  was  a clone. 

“She  left  a lot  of  DNA  this  morning,”  Koos  said.  “Tears,  you  name  it.  We  checked  it 
all.” 

Deshin  waited,  even  though  he  knew.  He  knew,  and  he  was  getting  furious. 

“She  had  no  clone  mark,”  Koos  said,  “except  in  her  DNA.  The  telomeres  were 
marked.” 

“Designer  Criminal  Clone,”  Deshin  said.  A number  of  criminal  organizations,  most 
operating  outside  the  Alliance,  made  and  trained  Designer  Criminal  Clones  for  just 
the  kind  of  thing  that  had  happened  to  Deshin. 

The  clone,  who  replicated  someone  the  family  or  the  target  knew  casually,  would 
slide  into  a business  or  a household  for  months,  maybe  years,  and  steal  information. 
Then  the  clone  would  leave  with  that  information  on  a chip,  bringing  it  to  whoever 
had  either  hired  that  DCC  or  who  had  grown  and  trained  the  clone. 

“I  don’t  think  she  was  a DCC,”  Koos  said.  “The  markers  don’t  fit  anyone  we  know.” 

“A  new  player?”  Deshin  asked. 

Koos  shrugged.  Then  he  took  one  step  forward.  “I’m  going  to  check  everything  she 
touched,  everything  she  did,  sir.  But  this  is  my  error,  and  it’s  a serious  one.  It  put 
your  business  and,  more  importantly,  your  family  in  danger.  I know  you’re  going  to 
fire  me,  but  before  you  do,  let  me  track  down  her  creator.  Let  me  redeem  myself” 

Deshin  didn’t  move  for  a long  moment.  He  had  double-checked  everything  Koos 
had  done.  Everything.  Because  Sonja  Mycenae — or  whatever  that  clone  was 
named — ^was  going  to  work  in  his  home,  with  his  family. 

“Do  you  think  she  stole  my  son’s  DNA?”  Deshin  asked  quietly. 

“I  don’t  know.  Clearly  she  didn’t  have  any  with  her  today,  but  if  she  had  handlers — ” 

“She  wouldn’t  have  had  trouble  meeting  them,  because  Gerda  and  I didn’t  want  a 
live-in  nanny.”  Deshin  cursed  silently.  There  was  more  than  enough  blame  to  go 
around,  and  if  he  were  honest  with  himself,  most  of  it  belonged  to  him.  He  had  been 
so  concerned  with  raising  his  son  that  he  hadn’t  taken  the  usual  precautions  in  pro- 
tecting his  family. 

“I  would  like  to  retrace  all  of  her  steps,”  Koos  said.  “We  might  be  able  to  find  her 
handler.” 

“Or  not,”  Deshin  said.  The  handler  had  killed  her  the  moment  she  had  ceased  to  be 
useful.  The  handler  felt  he  could  waste  a slow-grow  clone,  expensive  and  well  trained, 
placed  in  the  household  of  a man  everyone  believed  to  be  a criminal  mastermind. 

Some  mastermind.  He  had  screwed  up  something  this  important.  He  bit  back 
anger,  not  sure  how  he  would  tell  Gerda.  //he  would  tell  Gerda. 

Something  had  been  planned  here,  something  he  hadn’t  figured  out  yet,  and  that 
planning  was  not  complete.  Sonja  (or  whatever  her  name  was)  had  confirmed  that 
with  her  reaction  to  her  dismissal.  She  was  terrified,  and  she  probably  knew  she  was 
going  to  die. 

He  sighed. 

“I  will  quit  now  if  you’d  like  me  to,”  Koos  said. 

Deshin  wasn’t  ready  to  fire  Koos. 

“Find  out  who  she  answered  to.  Better  yet,  find  out  who  made  her,”  Deshin  said. 
“Find  her  handler.  We’ll  figure  out  what  happens  to  you  after  you  complete  that  as- 
signment.” 

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Koos  nodded,  but  didn’t  thank  Deshin.  Koos  knew  his  employer  well,  knew  that 
the  thanks  would  only  irritate  him. 

Deshin  hated  to  lose  Koos,  but  Koos  was  no  longer  one  hundred  percent  trustwor- 
thy. He  should  have  caught  this.  He  should  have  tested  Sonja’s  DNA  himself.  And 
that  was  why  Deshin  would  put  new  security  measures  into  place  for  his  business 
and  his  family.  Measures  he  designed. 

He’d  also  begin  the  search  for  the  new  head  of  security. 

It  would  take  time.  And,  he  was  afraid,  it  would  take  time  to  find  out  what  exactly 
Sonja  (or  whatever  her  name  was)  had  been  tr3dng  to  do  inside  his  home. 

That  had  just  become  his  first  priority.  Because  no  one  was  going  to  hurt  his 
family. 

No  matter  what  he  had  to  do  to  protect  them. 

Broduer  had  six  different  nanoprobes  digging  into  various  places  on  the  dead 
woman’s  skin  when  a holographic  computer  screen  appeared  in  front  of  him,  a red 
warning  light  flashing. 

He  moaned  slightly.  He  hated  the  lights.  They  got  sent  to  his  boss  automatically, 
and  often  the  damn  lights  reported  something  he  had  done  wrong. 

Well,  not  wrong,  exactly,  but  not  according  to  protocol. 

The  irony  was,  everything  he  had  done  in  this  autopsy  so  far  had  been  exactly  ac- 
cording to  protocol.  The  body  was  on  an  isolated  gurney,  which  was  doing  its  own  in- 
vestigation; they  were  in  one  of  the  most  protected  autopsy  chambers  in  the  coroner’s 
office;  and  Broduer  was  using  all  the  right  equipment. 

He  even  had  on  the  right  environmental  suit  for  the  type  of  poison  he  suspected 
killed  the  woman. 

He  cursed,  silently  and  creatively,  wishing  he  could  express  his  frustration  aloud, 
but  knowing  he  couldn’t,  because  it  would  become  part  of  the  permanent  record. 

Instead,  he  glared  at  the  light  and  wished  it  would  go  away.  Not  that  he  could 
make  it  go  away  with  a look. 

The  light  had  a code  he  had  never  seen  before.  He  put  his  gloved  finger  on  the 
code,  and  it  created  a whole  new  screen. 

This  body  is  cloned.  Please  file  the  permissions  code  to  autopsy  this  clone  or  cease 
work  immediately. 

“The  hell . . . ?”  he  asked,  then  realized  he  had  spoken  aloud,  and  he  silently  cursed 
himself  Some  stupid  supervisor,  reviewing  the  footage,  would  think  he  was  too  dumb 
to  know  a cloned  body  from  a real  body. 

But  he  had  made  a mistake.  He  hadn’t  taken  DNA  in  the  field.  He  had  used  facial 
recognition  to  identify  this  woman,  and  he  had  told  DeRicci  who  the  woman  was 
based  not  on  the  DNA  testing,  but  on  the  facial  recognition. 

Of  course,  if  DeRicci  hadn’t  pressed  him  to  give  her  an  identification  right  away, 
he  would  have  followed  procedure. 

Broduer  let  out  a small  sigh,  then  remembered  what  he  had  been  doing. 

There  was  still  a way  to  cover  his  ass.  He  had  been  investigating  whether  or  not 
this  woman  died  of  a hardening  poison,  and  if  that  poison  had  gotten  into  the  com- 
posting system. 

He  would  use  that  as  his  excuse,  and  then  mention  that  he  needed  to  continue  to 
find  cause  of  death  for  public  health  reasons. 

Besides,  someone  should  want  to  know  who  was  killing  clones  and  putting  them 
into  the  composting.  Not  that  it  was  illegal,  exactly.  After  all,  a dead  clone  was  or- 
ganic waste,  just  like  rotted  vegetables  were. 

He  shuddered,  not  wanting  to  think  about  it.  Maybe  someone  should  tell  the  Arm- 
strong City  Council  to  ban  the  composting  of  any  human  flesh,  be  it  original  or  cloned. 

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He  sighed.  He  didn’t  want  to  be  the  one  to  do  it.  He’d  slip  the  suggestion  into  his 
supervisor’s  ear  and  hope  that  she  would  take  him  up  on  it. 

He  pinged  his  supervisor,  telling  her  that  it  was  important  she  contact  him  right 
away.  Then  he  bent  over  the  body,  determined  to  get  as  much  work  done  as  possible 
before  someone  shut  this  investigation  down  entirely. 

DeRicci  sat  in  her  car  in  the  part  of  Armstrong  Police  Department  parking  lot  set 
aside  for  detectives.  She  hadn’t  used  the  car  all  day,  but  it  was  the  most  private  place 
she  could  think  of  to  watch  the  footage  Deshin  had  given  her. 

She  didn’t  want  to  take  the  footage  inside  the  station  until  she’d  had  a chance  to 
absorb  it.  She  wasn’t  sure  how  relevant  it  was,  and  she  wasn’t  sure  what  her  col- 
leagues would  think  of  it. 

Or,  if  she  were  being  truthful  with  herself,  she  didn’t  want  Lake  anywhere  near 
this  thing.  He  had  some  dubious  connections,  and  he  might  just  confiscate  the 
footage — not  for  the  case,  but  for  reasons  she  didn’t  really  want  to  think  about. 

So  she  stayed  in  her  car,  quietly  watching  the  footage  for  the  second  time,  taking 
mental  notes.  Because  something  was  off  here.  People  rarely  got  that  upset  getting 
fired  from  a job,  at  least  not  in  front  of  a man  known  to  be  as  dangerous  as  Luc  Deshin. 

Besides,  he  had  handled  the  whole  thing  well,  made  it  sound  like  not  a firing,  more 
like  something  inevitable,  something  that  Sonja  Mycenae’s  excellent  job  perfor- 
mance helped  facilitate.  The  man  was  impressive,  although  DeRicci  would  never  ad- 
mit that  to  anyone  else. 

When  DeRicci  watched  the  footage  the  first  time,  she  had  been  amazed  at  how 
calmly  Deshin  handled  Mycenae’s  meltdown.  He  managed  to  stay  out  of  her  way,  and 
he  managed  to  get  his  security  into  the  office  without  making  her  get  even  worse. 

Not  that  it  would  be  easy  for  her  to  be  worse.  If  DeRicci  hadn’t  known  that  Sonja 
Mycenae  was  murdered  shortly  after  this  footage  was  taken,  the  detective  would  have 
thought  the  woman  unhinged.  Instead,  DeRicci  knew  that  Mycenae  was  terrified. 

She  had  known  that  losing  her  position  would  result  in  something  awful,  most 
likely  her  death. 

But  why?  And  what  did  someone  have  on  a simple  nanny  with  no  record,  some- 
thing bad  enough  to  get  her  to  work  in  the  home  of  a master  criminal  and  his  wife, 
bad  enough  to  make  her  beg  said  criminal  to  keep  the  job? 

DeRicci  didn’t  like  this.  She  particularly  did  not  like  the  way  that  Mycenae  disap- 
peared off  the  security  footage  as  she  stepped  outside  of  the  building.  She  stood  be- 
side the  building  and  sobbed  for  a few  minutes,  then  staggered  away.  No  nearby 
buildings  had  exterior  security  cameras,  and  what  DeRicci  could  get  from  the  street 
cameras  told  her  little. 

She  would  have  to  get  the  information  from  inside  police  headquarters. 

Um,  Detective? 

DeRicci  sighed.  The  contact  came  from  Broduer,  on  her  links.  He  was  asking  for  a 
visual,  which  she  was  not  inclined  to  give  him.  But  he  probably  had  something  to 
show  her  from  the  autopsy. 

So  she  activated  the  visual,  in  two  dimensions,  making  his  head  float  above  the  car’s 
control  panel.  Broduer  wore  an  environmental  suit,  but  he  had  removed  the  hood  that 
had  covered  his  face.  R hung  behind  his  skull  like  a half-visible  alien  appendage. 

News  for  me,  Ethan?  she  asked,  hoping  to  move  him  along  quickly.  He  could  get 
much  too  chatty  for  her  tastes. 

Well,  you’re  not  going  to  like  any  of  it.  He  ran  a hand  through  his  hair,  messing  it 
up.  It  looked  a little  damp,  as  if  he’d  been  sweating  inside  the  suit. 

DeRicci  waited.  She  didn’t  know  how  she  could  like  or  dislike  any  news  about  the 
woman’s  death.  It  was  a case.  A sad  and  strange  case,  but  a case  nonetheless. 

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She  died  from  a hardening  poison,  Broduer  sent.  I’ve  narrowed  it  down  to  one  of 
five  related  types.  I’m  running  the  test  now  to  see  which  poison  it  actually  is. 

Poison.  That  took  effort.  Not  in  the  actual  application — many  poisons  were  impos- 
sible to  see,  taste,  or  feel — but  in  the  planning.  Someone  wanted  this  woman  dead, 
and  then  they  wanted  to  keep  her  death  secret. 

That’s  a weird  way  to  kill  someone,  DeRicci  sent. 

Broduer  looked  concerned.  Over  the  woman?  He  usually  saw  corpses  as  a curiosi- 
ty, not  as  someone  to  empathize  with.  That  was  one  of  the  few  things  DeRicci  liked 
about  Broduer.  He  could  handle  a job  as  a job. 

It  is  a weird  way  to  kill  someone,  Broduer  sent.  Then  he  glanced  over  his  shoulder 
as  if  he  expected  someone  to  enter  his  office  and  yell  at  him.  The  thing  is,  one  of  these 
types  of  poisons  could  contaminate  the  food  supply. 

What?  she  sent.  Or  maybe  she  said  that  out  loud.  Or  both.  She  felt  cold.  Contami- 
nate the  food  supply?  With  a body? 

She  wasn’t  quite  sure  of  the  connection,  but  she  didn’t  like  it. 

She  hadn’t  liked  the  corpse  in  the  compost  part  of  this  case  from  the  very  first. 

Broduer  took  an  obvious  deep  breath  and  his  gaze  met  hers.  She  stabilized  the 
floating  image  so  she  wasn’t  tracking  him  as  he  moved  up,  down,  and  across  the  con- 
trol panel. 

If,  he  sent,  the  poison  leaked  from  the  skin  and  got  into  the  compost,  then  it  would 
be  layered  onto  the  growing  plants,  which  would  take  in  the  poison  along  with  the  nu- 
trients. It  wouldn’t  be  enough  to  kill  anyone,  unless  someone’d  been  doing  this  for  a 
long  time. 

DeRicci  shook  her  head.  Then  I don’t  get  it.  How  is  this  anything  other  than  a nor- 
mal contamination? 

If  a wannabe  killer  wants  to  destroy  the  food  supply,  he’d  do  stuff  like  this  for  months, 
Broduer  sent.  People  would  start  dying  mysteriously.  Generally,  the  old  and  the  sick 
would  go  first,  or  people  who  are  vulnerable  in  the  parts  of  their  bodies  this  stuff  targets. 

Wouldn’t  the  basic  nanohealers  take  care  of  this  problem?  DeRicci  was  glad  they 
weren’t  doing  this  orally.  She  didn’t  want  him  to  know  how  shaken  she  was. 

If  it  were  small  or  irregular,  sure,  he  sent.  But  over  time?  No.  They’re  not  made  to 
handle  huge  contaminations.  They’re  not  even  designed  to  recognize  these  kinds  of 
poisons.  That’s  why  these  poisons  can  kill  so  quickly. 

DeRicci  suppressed  a shudder. 

Great,  she  sent.  How  do  we  investigate  food  contamination  like  that? 

That’s  your  problem.  Detective,  Broduer  sent  back,  somewhat  primly.  I’d  suggest 
starting  with  a search  of  records,  seeing  if  there  has  been  a rise  in  deaths  in  vulnerable 
populations. 

Can’t  you  do  that  easier  than  I can?  She  sent,  even  though  she  knew  he  would  back 
out.  It  couldn’t  hurt  to  try  to  get  him  to  help. 

Not  at  the  moment,  he  sent.  I have  a job  to  do. 

She  nearly  cursed  at  him.  But  she  managed  to  control  herself  A job  to  do.  The  bas- 
tard. She  had  a job  to  do  too,  and  it  was  just  as  important  as  his  job.  This  was  why 
she  hated  working  with  Broduer.  He  was  a jerk. 

Well,  she  sent,  let  me  know  the  type  of  poison  first,  before  I get  into  that  part  of  the 
investigation.  You  said  there  were  five,  and  only  one  could  contaminate  the  food  supply. 
You  think  that’s  the  one  we’re  dealing  with? 

I don’t  know  yet,  Detective,  he  sent.  I’ll  know  when  the  testing  is  done. 

Which  will  take  how  long? 

He  shrugged.  Not  long,  I hope. 

Great,  she  sent  again.  She  wanted  to  push  him,  but  pushing  him  sometimes  made 
him  even  more  passive-aggressive  about  getting  work  done. 


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Asimov's 

Well,  you  were  right,  she  sent.  I didn’t  like  it.  Now  I’m  off  to  investigate  even  more 
crap. 

Um,  not  yet,  Broduer  sent. 

Not  yet"?  Who  was  this  guy  and  why  did  he  think  he  could  control  everything  she 
did?  She  clenched  her  fists.  Pretty  soon,  she  would  tell  this  idiot  exactly  what  she 
thought  of  him,  and  that  wouldn’t  make  for  a good  working  relationship. 

TJm,  yeah,  he  sent.  There’s  one  other  problem. 

She  waited,  her  fists  so  tight  her  fingernails  were  digging  into  the  skin  of  her 
palms. 

He  looked  down.  I,  um,  misidentified  your  woman. 

You  what?  He  had  been  an  idiot  about  helping  her,  and  then  he  told  her  that  he  had 
done  crappy  work?  This  man  was  the  absolutely  worst  coroner  she’d  ever  worked  with 
(which  was  saying  something)  and  she  was  going  to  report  him  to  the  Chief  of  Detec- 
tives, maybe  even  to  the  Chief  of  Police,  and  get  him  removed  from  his  position. 

Yeah,  Broduer  sent.  She’s,  um,  not  Sonja  Mycenae. 

You  said  that,  DeRicci  sent.  Already,  her  mind  was  racing.  Misidentifying  the 
corpse  would  cause  all  kinds  of  problems,  not  the  least  of  which  would  be  problems 
with  Luc  Deshin.  Who  the  hell  is  she,  then? 

Broduer’s  skin  had  turned  gray.  He  clearly  knew  he  had  screwed  up  big  time.  She’s 
a clone  of  Sonja  Mycenae. 

A WHAT?  DeRicci  rolled  her  eyes.  That  would  have  been  good  to  know  right  from 
the  start.  Because  it  meant  the  investigation  had  gone  in  the  wrong  direction  from 
the  moment  she  had  a name. 

A clone.  I’m  sorry.  Detective. 

You  should  be,  DeRicci  sent.  I shouldn’t  even  be  on  this  investigation.  This  isn’t  a 
homicide. 

Well,  technically,  it’s  the  same  thing,  Broduer  sent. 

Technically,  it  isn’t,  DeRicci  sent.  She’d  had  dozens  of  clone  cases  before,  and  no 
matter  how  much  she  argued  with  the  Chief  of  Detectives,  Andrea  Gumiela,  it  didn’t 
matter.  The  clones  weren’t  human  under  the  law;  their  deaths  fell  into  property 
crimes,  generally  vandalism  or  destruction  of  valuable  property,  depending  on  how 
much  the  clone  was  worth  or  how  much  it  cost  to  create. 

But,  Detective,  she’s  a human  being  .... 

DeRicci  sighed.  She  believed  that,  but  what  she  believed  didn’t  matter.  What  mat- 
tered was  what  the  law  said  and  how  her  boss  handled  it.  And  she’d  been  through 
this  with  Gumiela.  Gumiela  would  send  DeRicci  elsewhere.  Gumiela  hadn’t  seen  the 
poor  girl  cr3dng  and  begging  for  her  life  in  front  of  Deshin.  Gumiela  hadn’t  seen  the 
near-perfect  corpse,  posed  as  if  she  were  sleeping  on  a pile  of  compost. 

Wait  a minute,  DeRicci  sent.  You  told  me  about  the  poisoning  first  because  . . .? 

Because,  Detective,  she  might  not  be  human,  but  she  might  have  been  a weapon  or 
weaponized  material.  And  that  would  fall  into  your  jurisdiction,  wouldn’t  it? 

Just  when  she  thought  that  Broduer  was  the  worst  person  she  had  ever  worked 
with,  he  manipulated  a clone  case  to  keep  it  inside  DeRicci’s  detective  division. 

I don’t  determine  jurisdiction,  she  sent,  mostly  because  this  was  on  the  record,  and 
she  didn’t  want  to  show  her  personal  feelings  on  something  that  might  hit  court  and 
derail  any  potential  prosecution. 

But  check,  would  you?  Broduer  sent.  Because  someone  competent  should  handle 
this. 

She  wasn’t  sure  what  “this”  was:  the  dead  clone  or  the  contamination. 

Just  send  me  all  the  information,  DeRicci  sent,  and  let  me  know  the  minute  you 
confirm  which  hardening  poison  killed  this  clone. 

I’ll  have  it  soon,  Broduer  sent  and  signed  off 

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DeRicci  leaned  back  in  the  car  seat,  her  cheeks  warm.  She  had  gone  to  Luc  Deshin 
for  nothing. 

Or  had  she? 

Which  Sonja  Mycenae  had  Deshin  fired  that  morning?  The  real  one?  Or  the  clone? 

DeRicci  let  herself  out  of  the  car.  She  had  to  talk  to  Gumiela.  But  before  she  did, 
she  needed  to  find  out  where  the  real  Mycenae  was — and  fast. 

Deshin  wasn’t  certain  how  to  tell  Gerda  that  Sonja  had  been  a plant,  placed  in 
their  home  for  a reason  he  didn’t  know  yet.  He  wandered  his  office,  screens  moving 
with  him  as  he  examined  the  tracker  he  had  placed  in  Sonja.  Then  he  winced.  Every 
time  he  thought  of  the  clone  as  Sonja,  he  felt  like  a fool.  From  now  on,  he  would  just 
call  her  the  clone,  because  she  clearly  wasn’t  Sonja. 

So  he  examined  the  information  from  the  tracker  he  had  placed  in  the  clone’s  palm 
the  moment  she  was  hired.  She  hadn’t  known  he  had  inserted  it.  He  had  done  it  when 
he  shook  her  hand,  using  technology  that  didn’t  show  up  on  any  of  the  regular  scans. 

He  wished  he  had  been  paranoid  enough  to  install  a video  tracker,  but  he  had 
thought — or  rather,  Gerda  had  thought — that  their  nanny  needed  her  privacy  in  her 
off  time. 

Of  course,  that  had  been  too  kind.  Deshin  should  have  tracked  the  clone  the  way 
he  tracked  anyone  he  didn’t  entirely  trust. 

Whenever  the  clone  had  been  with  Paavo,  Deshin  had  always  kept  a screen  open. 
He’d  even  set  an  alert  in  case  the  clone  took  Paavo  out  of  the  house  without  Gerda 
accompanying  them.  That  alert  had  never  activated,  because  Gerda  had  always  been 
nearby  when  the  clone  was  with  Paavo.  Deshin  was  grateful  for  that  caution  now.  He 
had  no  idea  what  serious  crisis  they  had  dodged. 

He  was  now  searching  through  all  the  other  information  in  the  tracker — where 
the  clone  had  gone  during  her  days  off,  where  she  had  spent  her  free  time.  He  knew 
that  Koos  had  been,  in  theory,  making  sure  she  had  no  unsavory  contacts — or  at 
least.  Deshin  had  tasked  Koos  with  doing  that. 

Now,  Deshin  was  double-checking  his  head  of  security,  making  certain  that  he  had 
actually  done  his  job. 

The  first  thing  Deshin  had  done  was  make  certain  that  the  clone  hadn’t  gone  to  the 
bad  parts  of  town.  According  to  the  tracker,  she  hadn’t.  Her  apartment  was  exactly 
where  she  had  claimed  it  was,  and  as  far  as  he  could  tell,  all  she  had  done  in  her  off 
hours  was  shop  for  her  own  groceries,  eaten  at  a local  restaurant,  and  gone  home. 

He  had  already  sent  a message  to  one  of  the  investigative  services  he  used.  He  want- 
ed them  to  search  the  clone’s  apartment.  He  wanted  video  and  DNA  and  all  kinds  of 
trace.  He  wanted  an  investigation  of  her  finances  and  a look  at  the  things  she  kept. 

He  also  didn’t  want  anyone  from  Deshin  Enterprises  associated  with  that  search.  He 
knew  that  his  investigative  service  would  keep  him  out  of  it.  They  had  done  so  before. 

He  had  hired  them  to  search  before  he  had  known  she  was  a clone.  He  had  hired 
them  while  he  was  waiting  for  his  attorney  to  look  at  the  footage  he  had  given  that 
detective.  With  luck,  the3fd  be  done  with  the  search  by  now. 

But  he  had  decided  to  check  the  tracker  himself,  looking  for  anomalies. 

The  only  anomaly  he  had  found  was  a weekly  visit  to  a building  in  downtown  Arm- 
strong. On  her  day  off,  she  went  to  that  building  at  noon.  She  had  also  been  at  that 
building  the  evening  Deshin  had  hired  her.  He  scanned  the  address,  looking  for  the 
businesses  that  rented  or  owned  the  place.  The  building  had  dozens  of  small  offices, 
and  none  of  the  businesses  were  registered  with  the  city. 

He  found  that  odd:  usually  the  city  insisted  that  every  business  register  for  tax  pur- 
poses. So  he  traced  the  building’s  ownership.  He  went  through  several  layers  of  corpo- 
rate dodges  to  find  something  odd:  the  building’s  owner  wasn’t  a corporation  at  all. 

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It  was  the  Earth  Alliance. 

He  let  out  a breath,  and  then  sank  into  a nearby  chair. 

Suddenly  ever3d.hing  made  sense. 

The  Earth  Alliance  had  been  after  him  for  years,  convinced  he  was  breaking  a mil- 
lion different  Alliance  laws  and  not  only  getting  away  with  it,  but  making  billions  from 
the  practice.  Ironically,  he  had  broken  a lot  of  Alliance  laws  when  he  started  out,  and  he 
still  had  a lot  of  sketchy  associates,  but  he  hadn’t  broken  a law  in  years  and  years. 

Still,  it  would  have  been  a coup  for  someone  in  Alliance  government  to  bring  down 
Luc  Deshin  and  his  criminal  enterprises. 

The  Alliance  had  found  it  impossible  to  plant  listening  devices  and  trackers  in 
Deshin’s  empire.  The  Alliance  was  always  behind  Deshin  Enterprises  when  it  came 
to  technology.  And  Deshin  himself  was  innately  cautious — 

Or  he  had  thought  he  was,  until  this  incident  with  the  clone. 

They  had  slipped  her  into  his  home.  They  might  have  had  a hundred  purposes  in 
doing  so — as  a spy  on  his  family,  to  steal  familial  DNA,  to  set  up  tracking  equipment 
in  a completely  different  way  than  it  had  been  done  before. 

And  for  an  entire  month,  they  had  been  successful. 

He  was  furious  at  himself,  but  he  knew  he  couldn’t  let  that  emotion  dominate  his 
thoughts.  He  had  to  take  action,  and  he  had  to  do  so  now. 

He  used  his  links  to  summon  Ishiyo  Cumija  to  his  office.  He’d  been  watching  her 
for  some  time.  She  hadn’t  been  Koos’s  second  in  command  in  the  security  depart- 
ment. She  had  set  up  her  own  fiefdom,  and  once  she  had  mentioned  to  Deshin  that 
she  worried  no  one  was  taking  security  seriously  enough. 

At  the  time,  he  had  thought  she  was  making  a play  for  Koos’s  job.  Deshin  still 
thought  she  was  making  a play  for  Koos’s  job  on  that  day  but  she  might  have  been 
doing  so  with  good  reason. 

Now,  she  would  get  a chance  to  prove  herself 

While  Deshin  waited  for  her,  he  checked  the  clone’s  DNA  and  found  that  strange 
mark  embedded  into  her  system.  He  had  never  seen  anything  like  it,  either.  The  De- 
signer Criminal  Clones  he’d  run  into  had  always  had  a product  stamp  embedded  into 
their  DNA.  This  wasn’t  a standard  DCC  product  stamp. 

It  looked  like  something  else. 

He  copied  it,  then  opened  Cumija’s  file,  accessed  the  DNA  samples  she  had  to  give 
every  week,  and  searched  to  see  if  there  was  any  kind  of  mark.  His  system  always 
searched  for  the  DCC  product  stamps,  but  rarely  searched  for  other  evidence  of 
cloning,  including  shortened  telomeres. 

Shortened  telomeres  could  happen  naturally.  In  the  past,  he’d  found  that  search- 
ing for  them  gave  him  so  many  false  positives — staff  members  who  were  older  than 
they  appeared,  employees  who  had  had  serious  injuries — that  he’d  decided  to  stop 
searching  for  anything  but  the  product  marks. 

He  wondered  now  if  that  had  been  a mistake.  His  search  of  Cumija’s  DNA  found 
no  DCC  product  mark,  and  nothing  matching  the  mark  his  system  had  found  in  the 
clone’s  DNA. 

As  the  search  ended,  Cumija  entered  the  office. 

She  was  stunningly  beautiful,  with  a cap  of  straight  hair  so  black  it  almost  looked 
blue,  and  dancing  black  eyes.  Until  he  met  Cumija,  he  would  never  have  thought 
that  someone  so  very  attractive  would  function  well  in  a security  position,  but  she 
had  turned  out  to  be  one  of  his  best  bodyguards. 

She  dressed  like  a woman  sexually  involved  with  a very  rich  man.  Her  clothing  al- 
ways revealed  her  taut  nut-brown  skin  and  her  fantastic  legs.  Sometimes  she  looked 
nearly  naked  in  the  clothing  she  had  chosen.  Men  and  women  watched  her  wherev- 
er she  went,  and  dismissed  her  as  someone  decorative,  someone  being  used. 

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On  this  day,  she  wore  a white  dress  that  crossed  her  breasts  with  an  X,  revealing 
her  sides,  and  expanding  to  cover  her  hips  and  buttocks.  Her  matching  white  shoes 
looked  as  deadly  as  the  shoes  that  she  had  used  to  kill  a man  trying  to  get  to  Deshin 
one  afternoon. 

“That  nanny  we  hired  turns  out  to  have  been  a clone,”  Deshin  said  without  greeting. 

“Yes,  I heard.”  Cumija’s  voice  was  low  and  sexy,  in  keeping  with  her  appearance. 

“Has  Koos  made  an  announcement?”  Deshin  asked.  Because  he  would  have  rec- 
ommended against  it. 

“No,”  she  said  curtly,  and  Deshin  almost  smiled.  She  monitored  ever3d,hing  Koos 
did.  It  was  a great  trait  in  a security  officer,  a terrible  trait  in  a subordinate — at  least 
from  the  perspective  of  someone  in  Koos’s  position. 

Deshin  said,  “I  need  you  to  check  the  other  employees — you,  and  you  only.  I don’t 
want  anyone  to  know  what  you’re  doing.  I have  the  marker  that  was  in  the  cloned 
Sonja  Mycenae’s  DNA.  I want  you  to  see  if  there’s  a match.  I also  want  a secondary 
check  for  Designer  Criminal  Clone  marks,  and  then  I want  you  to  do  a slow  search  of 
anyone  with  abnormal  telomeres.” 

Cumija  didn’t  complain,  even  though  he  was  giving  her  a lot  of  work.  ‘You  want 
me  to  check  everyone,”  she  said. 

‘Yes,”  he  said.  “Start  with  people  who  have  access  to  me,  and  then  move  outward. 
Do  it  quickly  and  quietly.” 

‘Yes,  sir,”  she  said. 

“Report  the  results  directly  to  me,”  he  said. 

“All  right,”  she  said.  “Are  links  all  right?” 

“No,”  he  said.  ‘You  will  report  in  person.” 

She  nodded,  thanked  him,  and  left  the  office. 

He  stood  there  for  a moment,  feeling  a little  shaken.  If  the  Alliance  was  tr3dng  to 
infiltrate  his  organization,  then  he  wouldn’t  be  surprised  if  there  were  other  clones 
stationed  in  various  areas,  clones  he  had  missed. 

After  Cumija  checked,  he  would  have  Koos  do  the  same  search,  and  see  if  he  came 
up  with  the  same  result. 

Deshin  went  back  to  his  investigation  of  that  building  that  the  clone  had  visited 
regularly.  He  had  no  firm  evidence  of  Earth  Alliance  involvement.  Just  suspicions, 
at  least  at  the  moment. 

And  regular  citizens  of  the  Alliance  would  be  stunned  to  think  that  their  precious 
Alliance  would  infiltrate  businesses  using  slow-grow  clones,  and  then  dispose  of 
them  when  they  lost  their  usefulness.  But  Deshin  knew  the  Alliance  did  all  kinds  of 
extra-legal  things  to  protect  itself  over  the  centuries.  And  somewhere.  Deshin  had 
been  flagged  as  a threat  to  the  Alliance. 

He  had  known  that  for  some  time.  He  had  always  expected  some  kind  of  infiltra- 
tion of  his  business.  But  the  infiltration  of  his  home  was  personal. 

And  it  needed  to  stop. 

Ethan  Broduer  looked  at  the  information  pouring  across  his  screen,  and  let  out  a 
sigh  of  relief  The  hardening  poison  wasn’t  one  of  the  kinds  that  could  leach  through 
the  skin.  He  still  had  to  test  the  compost  to  see  if  the  poison  had  contaminated  it,  but 
he  doubted  that. 

The  liver  mortis  told  him  that  she  had  died  elsewhere,  and  then  been  placed  in  the 
crate.  And  given  how  fast  this  hardening  poison  acted,  the  blood  wouldn’t  have  been 
able  to  pool  for  more  than  a few  minutes  an3rway. 

He  stood  and  walked  back  into  the  autopsy  room.  Now  that  he  knew  the  woman 
had  died  of  something  that  wouldn’t  hurt  him  if  he  came  in  contact  with  her  skin  or 
breathed  the  air  around  her,  he  didn’t  need  the  environmental  suit. 

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Hers  was  the  only  body  in  this  autopsy  room.  He  had  placed  the  clone  on  her  back 
before  sending  the  nanobots  into  her  system.  They  were  still  working,  finding  out 
even  more  about  her. 

He  knew  now  that  she  was  a slow-grow  clone,  which  meant  she  had  lived  some 
twenty  years,  had  hopes,  dreams,  and  desires.  As  a forensic  pathologist  who  had  ex- 
amined hundreds  of  human  corpses — cloned  and  non-cloned — the  only  differences 
he  had  ever  seen  were  the  telomeres  and  the  clone  marks. 

Slow-grow  clones  were  human  beings  in  everything  but  the  law. 

He  could  make  the  claim  that  fast-grow  clones  were  too,  that  they  had  the  mind  of 
a child  inside  an  adult  body,  but  he  tried  not  to  think  about  that  one.  Because  it 
meant  that  all  those  horrors  visited  on  fast-grow  clones  meant  those  horrors  were 
visited  on  a human  being  that  hadn’t  seen  more  than  a few  years  of  life,  an  innocent 
in  all  possible  ways. 

He  blinked  hard,  trjdng  not  to  think  about  any  of  it.  Then  he  stopped  beside  her 
table.  Lights  moved  along  the  back  of  it,  different  beams  examining  her,  tr3dng  to 
glean  her  medical  history  and  every  single  story  her  biology  could  tell.  Now  that  it 
was  clear  that  the  poison  that  killed  her  wouldn’t  contaminate  the  dome,  no  one 
would  investigate  this  case.  No  one  would  care. 

No  one  legally  had  to  care. 

He  sighed,  then  shook  his  head,  wondering  if  he  could  make  one  final  push  to  solve 
her  murder.  Detective  DeRicci  had  asked  for  a list  of  bodies  found  in  the  crates.  Bro- 
duer  would  make  her  that  list  after  all,  but  before  he  did,  he  would  see  if  those  bod- 
ies were  “human”  or  clones. 

If  they  were  clones,  then  there  was  a sabotage  problem,  some  kind  of  property 
crime — hell,  it  wasn’t  his  job  to  come  up  with  the  charge,  not  when  he  gave  her  the 
thing  to  investigate. 

But  maybe  he  could  find  something  to  investigate,  something  that  would  have  the 
side  benefit  of  giving  some  justice  to  this  poor  woman,  lying  alone  and  unwanted  on 
his  autopsy  table. 

“I’m  doing  what  I can,”  he  whispered,  and  then  wished  he  hadn’t  spoken  aloud. 

His  desire  to  help  her  would  be  in  the  official  record.  Then  he  corrected  himself: 
There  would  be  no  official  record,  since  she  wasn’t  officially  a murder  victim. 

He  was  so  sorry  about  that.  He’d  still  document  everything  he  could.  Maybe  in  the 
future,  the  laws  would  change.  Maybe  in  the  future,  her  death  would  matter  as  more 
than  a statistic. 

Maybe  in  the  future,  she’d  be  recognized  as  a person,  instead  of  something  to  be 
thrown  away,  like  leftover  food. 

The  Chief  of  Detectives,  Andrea  Gumiela,  had  an  office  one  floor  above  DeRicci’s, 
but  it  was  light  years  from  DeRicci’s.  DeRicci’s  office  was  in  the  center  of  a large 
room,  sectioned  off  with  dark  movable  walls.  She  could  protect  her  area  by  putting  a 
bubble  around  it  for  a short  period  of  time,  particularly  if  she  were  conducting  an  in- 
terview that  she  felt  wouldn’t  work  in  one  of  the  interview  rooms,  but  there  was  no 
real  privacy  and  no  sense  of  belonging. 

DeRicci  hated  working  out  in  the  center,  and  hoped  that  one  day  she  would  even- 
tually get  an  office  of  her  own.  The  tiny  aspirations  of  the  upwardly  mobile,  her  ex- 
husband  would  have  said.  She  couldn’t  entirely  disagree.  He  had  the  unfortunate 
habit  of  being  right. 

And  as  she  looked  at  Gumiela’s  office,  which  took  up  much  of  the  upper  floor,  De- 
Ricci knew  she  would  never  achieve  privacy  like  this.  She  wasn’t  political  enough. 
Some  days  she  felt  like  she  was  one  infraction  away  from  being  terminated. 

Most  days,  she  didn’t  entirely  care. 

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Andrea  Gumiela,  on  the  other  hand,  was  the  most  political  person  DeRicci  had 
ever  met.  Her  office  was  designed  so  that  it  wouldn’t  offend  anyone.  It  didn’t  have 
artwork  on  the  walls,  nor  did  it  have  floating  imagery.  The  decor  shifted  colors  when 
someone  from  outside  the  department  entered. 

When  someone  was  as  unimportant  as  DeRicci,  the  walls  were  a neutral  beige, 
and  the  desk  a dark  woodlike  color.  The  couch  and  chairs  at  the  far  end  of  the  room 
matched  the  desk. 

But  DeRicci  had  been  here  when  the  governor-general  arrived  shortly  after  her 
election,  and  the  entire  room  shifted  to  vibrant  colors — the  purples  and  whites  asso- 
ciated with  the  governor-general  herself  The  shift,  which  happened  as  the  governor- 
general  was  announced,  had  disturbed  DeRicci,  but  Gumiela  managed  it  as  a matter 
of  course.  She  was  going  to  get  promoted  some  day,  and  she  clearly  hoped  the  gover- 
nor-general would  do  it. 

“Make  it  fast,”  Gumiela  said  as  DeRicci  entered.  “I  have  meetings  all  afternoon.” 

Gumiela  was  tall  and  heavyset,  but  her  black  suit  made  her  look  thinner  than  she 
was — probably  with  some  kind  of  tech  that  DeRicci  didn’t  want  to  think  about.  Gu- 
miela’s  red  hair  was  piled  on  top  of  her  head,  making  her  long  face  seem  even  longer. 

“I  wanted  to  talk  with  you  in  person  about  that  woman  we  found  in  the  Ansel 
Management  crate,”  DeRicci  said. 

Gumiela,  for  all  her  anno3dng  traits,  did  keep  up  on  the  investigations. 

“I  thought  Rayvon  Lake  was  in  charge  of  that  case,”  Gumiela  said. 

DeRicci  shrugged.  “He’s  not  in  charge  of  anything,  sir.  Honestly,  when  it  comes  to 
cases  like  this,  I don’t  even  like  to  consult  him.” 

Gumiela  studied  her.  “He’s  your  partner.  Detective.” 

“Maybe,”  DeRicci  said,  “but  he  doesn’t  investigate  crimes.  He  takes  advantage  of 
them.” 

“That’s  quite  a charge,”  Gumiela  said. 

“I  can  back  it  with  evidence,”  DeRicci  said. 

“Do  so,”  Gumiela  said,  to  DeRicci’s  surprise.  DeRicci  frowned.  Had  Gumiela  paired 
them  so  that  DeRicci  would  bring  actual  evidence  against  Lake  to  the  Chiefs  office? 
It  made  an  odd  kind  of  sense.  No  one  could  control  Lake,  and  no  one  could  control 
DeRicci,  but  for  different  reasons.  Lake  had  his  own  tiny  fiefdom,  and  DeRicci  was 
just  plain  contrary. 

“All  right,”  DeRicci  said,  feeling  a little  off  balance.  She  hadn’t  expected  anything 
positive  from  Gumiela. 

And  then  Gumiela  reverted  to  t3qje.  “Fm  in  a hurry,  remember?” 

“Yes,  sir,  sorry,  sir,”  DeRicci  said.  This  woman  always  set  her  teeth  on  edge.  “The 
woman  in  the  crate,  she  was  killed  with  a hardening  poison.  For  a while,  Broduer 
thought  she  might  have  been  put  there  to  contaminate  the  food  supply,  but  it  was  the 
wrong  kind  of  poison.  We’re  okay  on  that.” 

Gumiela  raised  her  eyebrows  slightly.  Apparently  she  hadn’t  heard  about  the  pos- 
sible contamination.  DeRicci  had  been  worried  that  she  had. 

“Good  . . .”  Gumiela  said  in  a tone  that  implied . . . and . . .? 

“But,  I got  a list  from  him,  and  sir,  someone  is  dumping  bodies  in  those  crates  all 
over  the  city,  and  has  been  for  at  least  a year,  maybe  more.” 

“No  one  saw  this  pattern?”  Gumiela  asked. 

“The  coroner’s  office  noticed  it,”  DeRicci  said,  making  sure  she  kept  her  voice  calm. 
“Ansel  Management  noticed  it,  but  the  owner,  Najib  Ansel,  tells  me  that  over  the 
decades  his  family  has  owned  the  business,  they’ve  seen  all  kinds  of  things  dumped 
in  the  crates.” 

“Bodies,  though,  bodies  should  have  caught  our  attention,”  Gumiela  said.  Clearly, 
DeRicci  had  Gumiela’s  attention  now. 


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“No,”  DeRicci  said.  “The  coroner  got  called  in,  but  no  one  called  us.” 

“Well,  I’ll  have  to  change  this,”  Gumiela  said.  “Til—” 

“Wait,  sir,”  DeRicci  said.  “They  didn’t  call  us  for  the  correct  legal  reasons.” 

Gumiela  turned  her  head  slightly,  as  if  she  couldn’t  believe  she  had  heard  DeRicci 
right.  “What  reasons  could  those  possibly  be?” 

“The  dead  are  all  clones,  sir.”  DeRicci  made  sure  none  of  her  anger  showed  up  in 
the  tone  of  her  voice. 

“Clones?  Including  this  one?” 

“Yes,  sir,”  DeRicci  said.  “And  they  were  all  apparently  slow-grow.  If  they  had  been 
considered  human  under  the  law,  we  would  have  said  they  were  murdered.” 

Gumiela  let  out  an  exasperated  breath.  “This  woman,  this  poisoned  woman,  she’s  a 
clone?” 

‘Yes,  sir.”  DeRicci  knew  she  only  had  a moment  here  to  convince  Gumiela  to  let  her 
continue  on  this  case.  “But  I’d  like  to  continue  my  investigation,  sir,  because — ” 

“We’ll  send  it  down  to  property  crimes,”  Gumiela  said. 

“Sir,”  DeRicci  said.  “This  pattern  suggests  a practicing  serial  killer.  At  some  point, 
he’ll  find  legal  humans,  and  then  he’ll  be  experienced — ” 

“What  is  Ansel  Management  doing  to  protect  its  crates?”  Gumiela  said. 

DeRicci  felt  a small  surge  of  hope.  Was  Gumiela  actually  considering  this?  “They 
have  sensors  that  locate  things  by  weight  and  size.  They  believe  they’ve  reported  all 
the  bodies  that  have  come  through  their  system  in  the  last  several  years.” 

“They  believe?”  Gumiela  asked. 

“There’s  no  way  to  know  without  checking  every  crate,”  DeRicci  said. 

“Well,  this  is  a health  and  safety  matter.  I’ll  contact  the  Armstrong  city  inspectors 
and  have  them  investigate  all  of  the  recycling/compost  plants.” 

DeRicci  tried  not  to  sigh.  This  wasn’t  going  her  way  after  all.  “I  think  that’s  a good 
idea,  sir,  but — ” 

“Tell  me.  Detective,”  Gumiela  said.  “Did  you  have  any  leads  at  all  on  this  potential 
serial  before  you  found  out  that  the  bodies  belonged  to  clones?” 

DeRicci  felt  her  emotions  shift  again.  She  wasn’t  sure  why  she  was  so  emotionally 
involved  here.  Maybe  because  she  knew  no  one  would  investigate,  which  meant  no 
one  would  stop  this  killer,  if  she  couldn’t  convince  Gumiela  to  keep  the  investigation 
in  the  department. 

“She  worked  as  a nanny  for  Luc  Deshin,”  DeRicci  said.  “He  fired  her  this  morning.” 

“I  thought  this  was  that  case,”  Gumiela  said.  “His  people  probably  killed  her.” 

“I  considered  that,”  DeRicci  said.  “But  he  wouldn’t  have  gone  through  the  trouble 
of  firing  her  if  he  was  just  going  to  kill  her.” 

Gumiela  harrumphed.  Then  she  walked  around  the  furniture,  trailing  her  hand 
over  the  back  of  the  couch.  She  was  actually  considering  DeRicci’s  proposal — and  she 
knew  DeRicci  had  a point. 

“Do  you  know  who  the  original  was?”  Gumiela  asked. 

DeRicci’s  heart  sank.  She  hadn’t  wanted  Gumiela  to  ask  this  question.  DeRicci 
hadn’t  recognized  the  name,  but  Lake  had.  He  had  left  a message  on  DeRicci’s  desk — 
a message  that  rose  up  when  she  touched  the  desk’s  surface  (the  bastard) — ^which 
said.  Why  do  we  care  that  the  daughter  of  an  off-Moon  crime  lord  got  murdered? 

DeRicci  then  looked  up  the  Mycenae  family.  They  were  a crime  family  and  had  been 
for  generations,  but  Sonja  herself  didn’t  seem  to  be  part  of  the  criminal  side.  She  had 
attended  the  best  schools  on  Earth,  and  actually  had  a nanny  certificate.  She  had  re- 
nounced her  family  both  visibly  and  legally,  and  was  trying  to  live  her  own  life. 

“The  original’s  name  is  Sonja  Mycenae,”  DeRicci  said. 

“The  Mycenae  crime  family.”  Gumiela  let  out  a sigh.  “There’s  a pattern  here,  and 
one  we  don’t  need  to  be  involved  in.  Obviously  there’s  some  kind  of  winnowing  going 

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on  in  the  Earth-Moon  crime  families.  I’ll  notify  the  Alliance  to  watch  for  something 
bigger,  but  I don’t  think  you  need  to  investigate  this.” 

“Sir,  I know  Luc  Deshin  thought  she  was  Sonja  Mycenae,”  DeRicci  said.  “He  didn’t 
know  she  was  a clone.  That  means  this  isn’t  a crime  family  war — ” 

“We  don’t  know  what  it  is.  Detective,”  Gumiela  said.  “And  despite  your  obvious 
interest  in  the  case.  I’m  moving  you  off  it.  I have  better  things  for  you  to  do.  I’ll 
send  this  and  the  other  cases  down  to  property,  and  let  them  handle  the  investiga- 
tion.” 

“Sir,  please — ” 

“Detective,  you  have  plenty  to  do.  I want  that  report  on  Rayvon  Lake  by  morning.” 
Gumiela  nodded  at  her. 

DeRicci’s  breath  caught.  Gumiela  was  letting  her  know  that  if  she  dropped  this 
case,  she  might  get  a new  partner.  And  maybe,  she  would  guarantee  that  Lake 
stopped  polluting  the  department. 

There  was  nothing  DeRicci  could  do.  This  battle  was  lost. 

“Thank  you,  sir,”  she  said,  not  quite  able  to  keep  the  disappointment  from  her  voice. 

Gumiela  had  already  returned  to  her  desk. 

DeRicci  headed  for  the  door.  As  it  opened,  Gumiela  said,  “Detective,  one  last  thing.” 

DeRicci  closed  the  door  and  faced  Gumiela,  expecting  some  kind  of  reprimand  or 
admonition. 

“Have  you  done  the  clone  notification?”  Gumiela  asked. 

Earth  Alliance  law  required  any  official  organization  that  learned  of  a clone  to  no- 
tify the  original,  if  at  all  possible. 

“Not  yet,  sir,”  DeRicci  said.  She  had  held  off,  hoping  that  she  would  keep  the  case. 
If  she  had,  she  could  have  gone  to  the  Mycenae  family,  and  maybe  learned  something 
that  had  relevance  to  the  case. 

“Don’t,”  Gumiela  said.  “I’ll  take  care  of  that,  too.” 

“I  don’t  mind,  sir,”  DeRicci  said. 

“The  Mycenae  require  a delicate  touch,”  Gumiela  said.  “It’s  better  if  the  notifica- 
tion goes  through  the  most  official  of  channels.” 

DeRicci  nodded.  She  couldn’t  quite  bring  herself  to  thank  Gumiela.  Or  even  to  say 
anything  else.  So  she  let  herself  out  of  the  office. 

And  stopped  in  the  hallway. 

For  a moment,  she  considered  going  back  in  and  arguing  with  Gumiela.  Because 
Gumiela  wasn’t  going  to  notify  anyone  about  the  clone. 

Gumiela  probably  believed  that  crime  families  should  fight  amongst  themselves, 
so  the  police  didn’t  have  to  deal  with  them. 

DeRicci  paused  for  a half  second. 

If  she  went  back  in,  she  would  probably  lose  her  job.  Because  she  would  tell  Gu- 
miela exactly  what  she  thought  of  the  clone  laws,  and  the  way  that  property  would 
screw  up  the  investigation,  and  the  fact  that  people  were  actually  dying  and  being 
placed  in  crates. 

But,  if  DeRicci  lost  her  job,  she  wouldn’t  be  able  to  investigate  anything. 

The  next  time  she  got  a clone  case,  she’d  sit  on  that  information  for  as  long  as  she 
could,  finish  the  investigation,  and  maybe  make  an  arrest.  Sure,  it  might  not  hold 
up,  but  she  could  get  one  of  the  other  divisions  to  search  the  perpetrator’s  home  and 
business,  maybe  catch  him  with  something  else. 

This  time,  she  had  screwed  up.  She’d  followed  the  rules  too  closely.  She  shouldn’t 
have  gone  to  Gumiela  so  soon. 

DeRicci  would  know  better  next  time. 

And  she’d  play  dumb  when  Gumiela  challenged  her  over  it. 

Better  to  lose  a job  after  solving  a case,  instead  of  in  the  middle  of  a failed  one. 

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DeRicci  sighed.  She  didn’t  feel  better,  but  at  least  she  had  a plan. 

Even  if  it  was  a plan  she  didn’t  like  at  all. 

The  place  that  the  clone  frequented  near  the  Port  was  a one-person  office,  run  by  a 
man  named  Cade  Faulke.  Ostensibly,  Faulke  ran  an  employment  consulting  office, 
one  that  helped  people  find  jobs  or  training  for  jobs.  But  it  didn’t  take  a lot  of  digging 
to  discover  that  that  was  a cover  for  a position  with  Earth  Alliance  Security. 

From  what  little  Deshin  could  find,  it  seemed  that  Faulke  worked  alone,  with  an 
android  guard — the  kind  that  usually  monitored  prisons.  Clearly,  no  one  expected 
Faulke  to  be  investigated:  the  android  alone  would  have  been  a tip-off  to  anyone  who 
looked  deeper  than  the  thin  cover  that  Faulke  had  over  his  name. 

Deshin  wondered  how  many  other  Earth  Alliance  operatives  worked  like  that  in- 
side of  Armstrong.  He  supposed  there  were  quite  a few,  monitoring  various  Earth  Al- 
liance projects. 

Projects  like,  apparently,  his  family. 

Deshin  let  out  a sigh.  He  wandered  around  his  office,  feeling  like  it  had  become  a 
cage.  He  clenched  and  unclenched  his  fists. 

Sometimes  he  hated  the  way  he  had  restrained  himself  to  build  his  business  and 
his  family.  Sometimes  he  just  wanted  to  go  after  someone  on  his  own,  squeeze  the  life 
out  of  that  person,  and  then  leave  the  corpse,  the  way  someone  had  left  that  clone. 

Sp3dng  on  Deshin’s  family.  Gerda  and  five-month-old  Paavo  had  done  nothing  ex- 
cept get  involved  with  him. 

And  he  would  wager  that  Sonja  Mycenae’s  family  would  say  the  same  thing  about 
her.  He  stopped.  He  hadn’t  spoken  to  the  Mycenae  family  in  a long  time,  but  he  owed 
them  for  an  ancient  debt. 

He  sent  an  encoded  message  through  his  links  to  Aurla  Mycenae,  the  head  of  the 
Mycenae  and  Sonja’s  mother,  asking  for  a quick  audience. 

Then  Deshin  got  a contact  from  Cumija:  Five  low-level  employees  have  the  marker. 
None  of  them  have  access  to  your  family  or  to  anything  important  inside  Deshin  En- 
terprises. How  do  you  want  me  to  proceed? 

Send  me  a list,  he  sent  back. 

At  that  moment,  his  links  chirruped,  announcing  a massive  holomessage  so  en- 
coded that  it  nearly  overloaded  his  system.  He  accepted  the  message,  only  to  find  out 
it  was  live. 

Aurla  Mycenae  appeared,  full-sized,  in  the  center  of  his  floor.  She  wore  a flowing 
black  gown  that  accented  her  dark  eyebrows  and  thick  black  hair.  She  had  faint  lines 
around  her  black  eyes.  Otherwise  she  looked  no  older  than  she  had  the  last  time  he 
saw  her,  at  least  a decade  ago. 

“Luc,”  she  said  in  a throaty  voice  that  hadn’t  suited  her  as  a young  woman,  but 
suited  her  now.  “I  get  the  sense  this  isn’t  pleasure.” 

“No,”  he  said.  “I  thought  I should  warn  you.  I encountered  a slow-grow  clone  of 
your  daughter  Sonja.” 

He  decided  not  to  mention  that  he  had  hired  that  clone  or  that  she  had  been 
murdered. 

Mycenae  exhaled  audibly.  “Damn  Earth  Alliance.  Did  they  try  to  embed  her  in 
your  organization?” 

“They  succeeded  for  a time,”  he  said. 

“And  then?” 

So  much  for  keeping  the  information  back.  “She  turned  up  dead  this  morning.” 

“Typical,”  Mycenae  said.  “They’ve  got  some  kind  of  operation  going,  and  they’ve 
been  using  clones  of  my  family.  You’re  not  the  first  to  tell  me  this.” 

“All  slow-grow?”  Deshin  asked. 


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“Yes,”  Mycenae  said.  “We’ve  been  letting  everyone  know  that  anyone  applying  for 
work  from  our  family  isn’t  really  from  our  family.  I never  thought  of  contacting  you 
because  I thought  you  went  legit.” 

“I  have,”  Deshin  lied.  He  had  gone  legit  on  most  things.  He  definitely  no  longer  had 
his  fingers  in  the  kinds  of  deals  that  the  Mycenae  family  was  famous  for. 

“Amazing  they  tried  to  embed  with  you,  then,”  Mycenae  said. 

“She  was  nanny  to  my  infant  son,”  he  said,  and  he  couldn’t  quite  keep  the  fury 
from  his  voice. 

“Oh.”  Mycenae  sighed.  “They  want  to  use  your  family  like  they’re  using  mine. 
We’re  setting  something  up,  Luc.  We’ve  got  the  Alliance  division  doing  this  crap 
tracked,  and  we’re  going  to  shut  it  down.  You  want  to  join  us?” 

Take  on  an  actual  Earth  Alliance  Division?  As  a young  man,  he  would  have  con- 
sidered it.  As  a man  with  a family  and  a half-legitimate  business,  he  didn’t  dare  take 
the  risk. 

“I  trust  you  to  handle  it,  Aurla,”  he  said. 

“They  have  your  family’s  DNA  now,”  she  said,  clearly  as  a way  of  enticement. 

“It’s  of  no  use  to  them  in  the  short  term,”  he  said,  “and  by  the  time  we  reach  the 
long  term,  you’ll  have  taken  care  of  ever3d,hing.” 

“It’s  not  like  you  to  trust  anyone,  Luc.” 

And,  back  when  she  had  known  him  well,  that  had  been  true.  But  now,  he  had  to 
balance  security  for  himself  and  his  business  associates  with  security  for  his  family. 

“Fm  not  trusting  you  per  se,  Aurla,”  he  said.  “I  just  know  how  you  operate.” 

She  grinned  at  him.  “I’ll  let  you  know  when  we’re  done.” 

“No  need,”  he  said.  “Good  luck.” 

And  then  he  signed  off  The  last  thing  he  wanted  was  to  be  associated  in  any  way 
with  whatever  operation  Aurla  ran.  She  was  right:  it  wasn’t  like  him  to  trust  any- 
one. And  while  he  trusted  her  to  destroy  the  division  that  was  hurting  her  family,  he 
didn’t  trust  her  to  keep  him  out  of  it. 

Too  much  contact  with  Aurla  Mycenae,  and  Deshin  might  find  himself  arrested  as 
the  perpetrator  of  whatever  she  was  planning.  Mycenae  was  notorious  for  betra3dng 
colleagues  when  her  back  was  against  the  wall. 

The  list  came  through  his  links  from  Cumija.  She  was  right:  the  employees  were 
low-level.  He  didn’t  recognize  any  of  the  names  and  had  to  look  them  up.  None  of 
them  had  even  met  Deshin. 

Getting  the  clone  of  Sonja  embedded  into  his  family  was  some  kind  of  coup. 

He  wouldn’t  fire  anyone  yet.  He  wanted  to  see  if  Koos  came  up  with  the  same  list. 
If  he  did,  then  Deshin  would  move  forward. 

But  these  employees  were  tagged,  just  like  Sonja’s  clone  had  been.  He  decided  to 
see  if  they  had  been  visiting  Faulke  as  well. 

And  if  they  had,  Faulke  would  regret  ever  crossing  paths  with  Deshin  Enterpris- 
es. 


Detective  DeRicci  left  Andrea  Gumiela’s  office.  Gumiela  felt  herself  relax.  DeRicci 
was  trouble.  She  hated  rules  and  she  had  a sense  of  righteousness  that  often  made  it 
difficult  for  her  to  do  her  job  well.  There  wasn’t  a lot  of  righteousness  in  the  law,  par- 
ticularly when  Earth  Alliance  law  trumped  Armstrong  law. 

Gumiela  had  to  balance  both. 

She  resisted  the  urge  to  run  a hand  through  her  hair.  It  had  taken  a lot  of  work  to 
pile  it  just  so  on  top  of  her  head,  and  she  didn’t  like  wasting  time  on  her  appearance, 
as  important  as  it  was  to  her  job. 

Of  course,  the  days  when  it  was  important  were  either  days  when  a major  disaster 
hit  Armstrong  or  when  someone  in  her  department  screwed  up. 

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She  certainly  hoped  this  clone  case  wouldn’t  become  a screw-up. 

She  put  a hand  over  her  stomach,  feeling  slightly  ill.  She  had  felt  ill  from  the  mo- 
ment DeRicci  mentioned  Mycenae  and  Deshin.  At  that  moment,  Gumiela  knew  who 
had  made  the  clone  and  who  was  handling  it. 

She  also  knew  who  was  killing  the  clones — or  at  least  authorizing  the  deaths. 

DeRicci  was  right.  Those  deaths  presaged  a serial  killer  (or,  in  Gumiela’s  unofficial 
opinion,  proved  one  already  existed).  Or  worse,  the  deaths  suggested  a policy  of  tar- 
geted killings  that  Gumiela  couldn’t  countenance  in  her  city. 

Technically,  Gumiela  should  contact  Gade  Faulke  directly.  He  had  contacted  her  di- 
rectly more  than  once  to  report  a possible  upcoming  crime.  She  had  used  him  as  an 
informant,  which  meant  she  had  used  his  clones  as  informants  as  well. 

And  those  clones  were  ending  up  dead. 

She  choked  back  bile.  Some  people,  like  DeRicci,  would  say  that  Gumiela  had 
hands  as  dirty  as  Faulke’s. 

But  she  hadn’t  known  he  was  killing  the  clones  when  they  ceased  being  useful  or 
when  they  crossed  some  line.  She  also  hadn’t  known  that  he  had  been  poisoning 
them  using  such  a painful  method.  And  he  hadn’t  even  thought  about  the  possible 
contamination  of  the  food  supply. 

Gumiela  swallowed  hard  again,  hoping  her  stomach  would  settle. 

Technically,  she  should  contact  him  and  tell  him  to  cease  that  behavior. 

But  Gumiela  had  been  in  her  job  a long  time.  She  knew  that  telling  someone  like 
Faulke  to  quit  was  like  telling  an  addict  to  stop  drinking.  It  wouldn’t  happen,  and  it 
couldn’t  be  done. 

She  couldn’t  arrest  him,  either.  Even  if  she  caught  him  in  the  act,  all  he  was  doing 
was  damaging  property.  And  that  might  get  him  a fine  or  two  or  maybe  a year  or  so 
in  jail,  if  the  clones’  owners  complained.  But  if  DeRicci  was  right,  the  clones’  owners 
were  the  Earth  Alliance  itself  And  Faulke  worked  for  the  Alliance,  so  technically,  he 
was  probably  the  owner,  and  property  owners  could  do  whatever  they  wanted  with 
their  belongings. 

Except  toss  them  away  in  a manner  that  threatened  the  public  health. 

Gumiela  sat  in  one  of  the  chairs  and  leaned  her  head  back,  closing  her  eyes,  forcing 
herself  to  think. 

She  had  to  do  something,  and  despite  what  she  had  said  to  DeRicci,  following  pro- 
cedure was  out  of  the  question.  She  needed  to  get  Faulke  out  of  Armstrong,  only  she 
didn’t  have  the  authority  to  do  so. 

But  she  knew  who  did. 

She  sat  up.  Long  ago,  she’d  met  Faulke’s  handler,  Ike  Jarvis.  She  could  contact 
him.  Maybe  he  would  work  with  her. 

It  was  worth  a try. 

Otto  Koos  led  his  team  to  the  building  housing  Cade  Faulke’s  fake  business.  The 
building  was  made  of  some  kind  of  polymer  that  changed  appearance  daily.  This 
day’s  appearance  made  it  seem  like  old-fashioned  red  brick  Koos  hadn’t  seen  since 
his  childhood  on  Earth. 

Five  Ansel  Management  crates  stood  in  their  protected  unit  in  the  alley  behind  the 
building.  They  had  a cursory  lock  with  a security  code  that  anyone  in  the  building 
probably  had. 

It  was  as  much  of  a confession  as  he  needed. 

But  the  boss  would  need  more.  Luc  Deshin  had  given  strict  orders  for  this  mis- 
sion— no  killing. 

Koos  knew  he  was  on  probation  now — maybe  forever.  He  had  missed  the  Myce- 
nae clone,  and,  after  he  had  done  a quick  scan  of  the  employees,  he’d  discovered  he 

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had  missed  at  least  five  others.  At  least  they  hadn’t  been  anywhere  near  the  Deshin 
family. 

The  Mycenae  clone  had.  Who  knew  what  kind  of  material  the  Alliance  had  gathered? 

Faulke  knew.  Eventually,  Koos  would  know  too.  It  just  might  take  some  time. 

He  had  brought  ten  people  with  him  to  capture  Faulke.  The  office  had  an  android 
guard,  though,  the  durable  kind  used  in  prisons.  Koos  either  had  to  disable  it  or  get 
it  out  of  the  building. 

He’d  failed  the  one  time  he’d  tried  to  disable  those  things  in  the  past.  He  was  opt- 
ing for  getting  it  out  of  the  building. 

Ready'?  he  sent  to  two  of  his  team  members. 

Yes,  they  sent  back  at  the  same  time. 

Go!  he  sent. 

They  were  nowhere  near  him,  but  he  knew  what  they  were  going  to  do.  They  were 
going  to  start  a fight  in  front  of  the  building  that  would  get  progressively  more  vio- 
lent. And  then  they’d  start  shooting  up  the  area  with  laser  pistols. 

Other  members  of  his  team  would  prevent  any  locals  from  stopping  the  fight,  and 
the  fight  would  continue  until  the  guard  came  down. 

Then  Koos  would  sneak  in  the  back  way,  along  with  three  other  members  of  his 
team. 

They  were  waiting  now.  They  had  already  checked  the  back  door — unlocked  during 
daylight  hours.  They  were  talking  as  if  they  had  some  kind  of  business  with  each 
other. 

At  least  they  weren’t  shifting  from  foot  to  foot  like  he  wanted  to  do. 

Instead,  all  he  could  do  was  stare  at  that  stamp  for  Ansel  Management. 

It  hadn’t  been  much  work  to  pick  up  the  Mycenae  clone  and  stuff  her  into  one  of 
the  crates. 

If  Deshin  hadn’t  given  the  no-kill  order,  then  Koos  would  have  stuffed  Faulke  into 
one  of  the  crates,  dying,  but  alive,  so  that  he  knew  what  he  had  done. 

Koos  would  have  preferred  that  to  Deshin’s  plan. 

But  Koos  wasn’t  in  charge.  And  he  had  to  work  his  way  back  into  Deshin’s  good 
graces. 

And  he  would  do  that. 

Starting  now. 

Gumiela  had  forgotten  that  Ike  Jarvis  was  an  officious  prick.  He  ran  intelligence 
operatives  who  worked  inside  the  Alliance.  Generally,  those  operatives  didn’t  oper- 
ate in  human-run  areas.  In  fact,  they  shouldn’t  operate  in  human-run  areas  at  all. 

Earth  Alliance  Intelligence  was  supposed  to  do  the  bulk  of  its  work  outside  the  Al- 
liance. 

Gumiela  had  contacted  him  on  a special  link  the  Earth  Alliance  had  set  up  for  the 
Armstrong  Police  Department,  to  be  used  only  in  cases  of  Earth  Alliance  troubles  or 
serious  Alliance  issues. 

She  figured  this  counted. 

Jarvis  appeared  in  the  center  of  the  room,  his  three-dimensional  image  fritzing  in 
and  out  either  because  of  a bad  connection  or  because  of  the  levels  of  encoding  this 
conversation  was  going  through. 

He  looked  better  when  he  appeared  and  disappeared.  She  preferred  it  when  he 
was  slightly  out  of  focus. 

“This  had  better  be  good,  Andy,”  Jarvis  said,  and  Gumiela  felt  her  shoulders  stiff- 
en. No  one  called  her  Andy,  not  even  her  best  friends.  Only  Jarvis  had  come  up  with 
that  nickname,  and  somehow  he  seemed  to  believe  it  made  them  closer. 

“I  need  you  to  pull  Cade  Faulke,”  she  said. 


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“I  don’t  pull  anyone  on  your  say  so.”  Jarvis  fritzed  again.  His  image  came  back  just 
a little  smaller,  just  a little  tighter.  So  the  problem  was  on  his  end. 

If  she  were  in  a better  mood,  she  would  smile.  Jarvis  was  short  enough  without 
doctoring  the  image.  He  had  once  tried  to  compensate  for  his  height  by  buying  en- 
hancements that  deepened  his  voice.  All  they  had  done  was  ruin  it,  leaving  him 
sounding  like  he  had  poured  salt  down  his  throat. 

“You  pull  him  or  I arrest  him  for  attempted  mass  murder,”  she  said,  a little  sur- 
prised at  herself 

Jarvis  moved  and  fritzed  again.  Apparently  he  had  taken  a step  backward  or 
something,  startled  by  her  vehemence. 

“What  the  hell  did  he  do?”  Jarvis  asked,  not  playing  games  any  longer. 

‘You  have  Faulke  running  slow-grow  clones  in  criminal  organizations,  right?”  she 
asked. 

“Andy,”  he  said,  returning  to  that  condescending  tone  he  had  used  earlier,  “I  can’t 
tell  you  what  I’m  doing.” 

“Fine,”  she  snapped.  “I  thought  we  had  a courteous  relationship,  based  on  mutual 
interest.  I was  wrong.  Sorry  to  bother  you,  Ike — ” 

“Wait,”  he  said.  “What  did  he  do?” 

“It  doesn’t  matter,”  she  said.  ‘You  get  to  send  Earth  Alliance  lawyers  here  to  talk  about 
the  top-secret  crap  to  judges  who  might’ve  died  because  of  your  guy’s  carelessness.” 

And  then  she  signed  off 

She  couldn’t  do  anything  she  had  just  threatened  Jarvis  with.  The  food  thing 
hadn’t  risen  to  the  level  where  she  could  charge  Faulke,  and  that  was  if  she  could 
prove  that  he  had  put  the  bodies  into  the  crates  himself  He  had  an  android  guard, 
which  the  Chief  of  Police  had  had  to  approve — those  things  weren’t  supposed  to  op- 
erate inside  the  city — and  that  guard  had  probably  done  all  the  dirty  work.  They 
would  just  claim  malfunction,  and  Faulke  would  be  off  the  hook. 

Jarvis  fritzed  back  in,  fainter  now.  The  image  had  moved  one  meter  sideways, 
which  meant  he  was  superimposed  over  one  of  her  office  chairs.  The  chair  cut 
through  him  at  his  knees  and  waist.  Obviously,  he  had  no  idea  where  his  image  had 
appeared,  and  she  wasn’t  about  to  tell  him  or  move  the  image. 

“Okay,  okay,”  Jarvis  said.  “I’ve  managed  to  make  this  link  as  secure  as  I possibly 
can,  given  my  location.  Guarantee  that  your  side  is  secure.” 

Gumiela  shrugged.  “I’m  alone  in  my  office,  in  the  Armstrong  police  department. 
Good  enough  for  you?” 

She  didn’t  tell  him  that  she  was  recording  this  whole  thing.  She  was  tired  of  being 
used  by  this  asshole. 

“I  guess  it’ll  have  to  be.  Yes,  Faulke  is  running  the  clones  that  we  have  embedded 
with  major  criminal  organizations  on  the  Moon.” 

“If  the  clones  malfunction” — she  chose  that  word  carefully — “what’s  he  supposed 
to  do?” 

“Depends  on  how  specific  the  clone  is  to  the  job,  and  how  important  it  is  to  the  op- 
eration,” he  said.  “Generally,  Faulke’s  supposed  to  ship  the  clone  back.  That’s  why 
Armstrong  PD  approved  android  guards  for  his  office.” 

“There  aren’t  guards,”  she  said.  “There’s  only  one.” 

Jarvis’s  image  came  in  a bit  stronger.  “What?” 

“Just  one,”  she  said,  “and  that’s  not  all.  I don’t  think  your  friend  Faulke  has  sent 
any  clones  back.” 

“I  can  check,”  Jarvis  said. 

“I  don’t  care  what  you  do  for  your  records.  According  to  ours” — and  there  she  was  ly- 
ing again — “he’s  been  killing  the  clones  that  don’t  work  out  and  putting  them  in  com- 
posting crates.  Those  crates  go  to  the  Growing  Pits,  which  grow  fresh  food  for  the  city.” 

Inhuman  Garbage 


103 


March  2015 

“He  Jarvis  asked. 

“And  to  make  matters  worse,  he’s  using  a hardening  poison  to  kill  them,  a poison 
our  coroner  fears  might  leach  into  our  food  supply.  We’re  checking  on  that  now.  Al- 
though it  doesn’t  matter.  The  intent  is  what  matters,  and  clearly  your  man  Faulke 
has  lost  his  mind.” 

Jarvis  cursed.  “You’re  not  making  this  up.” 

It  wasn’t  a question. 

“I’m  not  making  this  up,”  she  said.  “I  want  him  and  his  little  android  friend  out  of 
here  within  the  hour,  or  I’m  arresting  him,  and  I’m  putting  him  on  trial.  Public  tri- 
al.” 

“Do  you  realize  how  many  operations  you’ll  ruin?” 

“No,”  she  said,  “and  I don’t  care.  Get  him  out  of  my  city.  It’s  only  a matter  of  time 
before  your  crazy  little  operative  starts  killing  legal  humans,  not  just  cloned  ones. 
And  I don’t  want  him  doing  it  here.” 

Jarvis  cursed  again.  “Can  I get  your  help — ” 

“No,”  she  said.  “I  don’t  want  anyone  at  the  police  department  involved  with  your 
little  operation.  And  if  you  go  to  the  chief.  I’ll  tell  her  that  you  have  thwarted  my  at- 
tempts to  arrest  a man  who  threatens  the  entire  dome.  Because,  honestly,  Ike  baby, 
this  is  a courtesy  contact.  I don’t  have  to  do  you  any  favors  at  all,  especially  consid- 
ering what  kind  of  person,  if  I can  use  that  word,  you  installed  in  my  city.  Have  you 
got  that?” 

‘Yes,  Andrea,  I do,”  he  said,  looking  serious. 

Andrea.  So  he  had  heard  her  all  those  times.  And  he  had  ignored  her,  the  bastard. 
She  made  note  of  that  too. 

“One  hour,”  she  said,  and  signed  off 

Then  she  wiped  her  hands  on  her  skirt.  They  were  shaking  just  a little.  Screw  him, 
the  weaselly  little  bastard.  She’d  send  someone  to  that  office  now,  to  escort  Jarvis’s 
horrid  operative  out  of  Armstrong. 

She  wanted  to  make  sure  that  asshole  left  quickly,  and  didn’t  double  back.  She 
wanted  this  problem  out  of  her  city,  off  her  Moon,  and  as  far  from  her  notice  as  pos- 
sible. And  that,  she  knew,  was  the  best  she  could  do  without  upsetting  the  depart- 
ment’s special  relationship  with  the  Alliance. 

She  hoped  her  best  would  be  good  enough. 

Up  the  back  stairs,  into  the  narrow  hallway  that  smelled  faintly  of  dry  plastic, 
Koos  led  the  raid,  his  best  team  members  behind  him.  They  fanned  out  in  the  narrow 
hallway,  the  two  women  first,  signaling  that  the  hallway  was  clear.  Koos  and  Hala, 
the  only  other  man  on  this  part  of  the  team,  skirted  past  them,  and  through  the  open 
door  of  Faulke’s  office. 

It  was  much  smaller  than  Koos  expected.  Faulke  was  only  three  meters  from  him. 
Faulke  was  scrawny,  narrow-shouldered,  the  kind  of  man  easily  ignored  on  the 
street. 

He  reached  behind  his  back — probably  for  a weapon — as  Koos  and  Hala  held  their 
laser  rifles  on  him. 

“Don’t  even  try,”  Koos  said.  “I  have  no  compunction  shooting  you.” 

Faulke’s  eyes  glazed  for  a half  second — probably  letting  his  android  guard  know 
he  was  in  trouble — then  an  expression  of  panic  flitted  across  his  face  before  he  man- 
aged to  control  it. 

The  other  members  of  Koos’s  team  had  already  disabled  the  guard. 

“Who  are  you?”  Faulke  asked. 

Koos  ignored  him,  and  spoke  to  his  team.  “I  want  him  bound.  And  make  sure  you 
disable  his  links.” 


104 


Kristine  Kathryn  Rusch 


Asimov's 

One  of  the  women  slipped  in  around  Koos,  and  put  light  cuffs  around  Faulke’s 
wrists  and  pasted  a small  rectangle  of  Silent-Seal  over  his  mouth. 

You  can’t  get  away  with  this,  Faulke  sent  on  public  links.  You  have  no  idea  who  1 
am — 

And  then  his  links  shut  off 

Koos  grinned.  “You’re  Cade  Faulke.  You  work  for  Earth  Alliance  Intelligence. 
You’ve  been  running  clones  that  you  embed  into  businesses.  Am  I missing  an3d,hing?” 

Faulke’s  eyes  didn’t  change,  but  he  swallowed  hard. 

“Let’s  get  him  out  of  here,”  Koos  said. 

They  encircled  him,  in  case  the  other  tenants  on  the  floor  decided  to  see  what  all 
the  fuss  was  about.  But  no  one  opened  any  doors.  The  neighborhood  was  too  dicey  for 
that.  If  anyone  had  an  ounce  of  civic  feeling,  they  would  have  gone  out  front  to  stop 
the  fight  that  Koos  had  staged  below. 

And  no  one  had. 

He  took  Faulke’s  arm,  surprised  at  how  flabby  it  was.  Hardly  any  muscles  at  all. 
No  wonder  the  asshole  had  used  poison.  He  wasn’t  strong  enough  to  subdue  any  liv- 
ing creature  on  his  own. 

“You’re  going  to  love  what  we  have  planned  for  you,”  Koos  said  as  he  dragged 
Faulke  down  the  stairs.  “By  the  end  of  it  all,  you  and  I will  be  old  friends.” 

This  time  Faulke  gave  him  a startled  look. 

Koos  grinned  at  him,  and  led  him  to  the  waiting  car  that  would  take  them  to  the 
Port. 

It  would  be  a long  time  before  anyone  heard  from  Cade  Faulke  again. 

If  they  ever  did. 

DeRicci  hated  days  like  today.  She  had  lost  a case  because  of  stupid  laws  that  had 
no  bearing  on  what  really  happened.  A woman  had  been  murdered,  and  DeRicci 
couldn’t  solve  the  case.  It  would  go  to  property,  where  it  would  get  stuck  in  a pile  of 
cases  that  no  one  cared  about,  because  no  one  would  be  able  to  put  a value  on  this 
particular  clone.  No  owner  would  come  forward.  No  one  would  care. 

And  if  DeRicci  hadn’t  seen  this  sort  of  thing  a dozen  times,  she  would  have  tried 
to  solve  it  herself  in  her  off  time.  She  might  still  hound  property,  just  to  make  sure 
the  case  didn’t  get  buried.  Maybe  she’d  even  use  Broduer’s  lies.  She  might  tell  prop- 
erty that  whoever  planted  the  clone  had  tried  to  poison  the  city.  That  might  get  some 
dumb  property  detective  off  his  butt. 

She,  on  the  other  hand,  was  already  working  on  the  one  good  thing  to  come  out  of 
this  long  day.  She  was  compiling  all  the  documents  on  every  single  thing  that 
Ra3Won  Lake  had  screwed  up  in  their  short  tenure  as  partners.  Even  she  hadn’t  re- 
alized how  much  it  was. 

She  would  have  a long  list  for  Gumiela  by  the  end  of  the  day,  and  this  time,  Gu- 
miela  would  pay  attention. 

Or  DeRicci  would  threaten  to  take  the  clone  case  to  the  media.  DeRicci  had  been 
appalled  that  human  waste  could  get  into  the  recycling  system;  she  would  wager 
that  the  population  of  Armstrong  would  too. 

One  threat  like  that,  and  Gumiela  would  have  to  fire  Lake. 

It  wasn’t  justice.  It  wasn’t  anything  resembling  justice. 

But  after  a few  years  in  this  job,  DeRicci  had  learned  only  one  thing: 

Justice  didn’t  exist  in  the  Earth  Alliance. 

Not  for  humans,  not  for  clones,  not  for  anyone. 

And  somehow,  she  had  to  live  with  it. 

She  just  hadn’t  quite  figured  out  how. 


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105 


March  2015 


Deshin  arrived  home,  exhausted  and  more  than  a little  unsettled.  The  house 
smelled  of  baby  powder  and  coffee.  He  hadn’t  really  checked  to  see  how  the  rest  of 
Gerda’s  day  alone  with  Paavo  had  gone.  He  felt  guilty  about  that. 

He  went  through  the  modest  living  room  to  the  baby’s  room.  He  and  Gerda  didn’t 
flash  their  wealth  around  Armstrong,  preferring  to  live  quietly.  But  he  had  so  much 
security  in  the  home  that  he  was  still  startled  the  clone  had  broken  through  it. 

Gerda  was  sitting  in  a rocking  chair  near  the  window,  Paavo  in  her  arms.  She  put 
a finger  to  her  lips,  but  it  did  no  good. 

His  five-month-old  son  twisted,  and  looked  at  Deshin  with  such  aware  eyes  that  it 
humbled  him.  Deshin  knew  that  this  baby  was  twenty  times  smarter  than  he  would 
ever  be.  It  worried  him,  and  it  pleased  him  as  well. 

Paavo  smiled  and  extended  his  pudgy  arms.  Deshin  picked  him  up.  The  boy  was 
heavier  than  he  had  been  just  a week  before.  He  also  needed  a diaper  change. 

Deshin  took  him  to  the  changing  table  and  started,  knowing  just  from  the  look  on 
her  face  that  Gerda  was  exhausted  too. 

“Long  day?”  he  asked. 

“Good  day,”  she  said.  “We  made  the  right  decision.” 

“Yes,”  he  said.  “We  did.” 

He  had  decided  on  the  way  home  not  to  tell  her  ever3rthing.  He  would  wait  until 
the  interrogation  of  Cade  Faulke  and  the  five  clones  was  over.  Koos  had  taken  all  six 
of  them  out  of  Armstrong  in  the  same  ship. 

And  the  interrogations  wouldn’t  even  start  until  Koos  got  them  out  of  Earth  Al- 
liance territory,  days  from  now.  Deshin  had  no  idea  what  would  happen  to  Faulke  or 
the  clones  after  that.  Deshin  was  leaving  that  up  to  Koos.  Koos  no  longer  headed  se- 
curity for  Deshin  Enterprises  in  Armstrong,  but  he  had  served  Deshin  well  today.  He 
would  handle  some  of  the  company's  work  outside  the  Alliance. 

Not  a perfect  day’s  work,  not  even  the  da/s  work  Deshin  had  expected,  but  a good 
one  nonetheless.  He  probably  had  other  leaks  to  plug  in  his  organization,  but  at  least 
he  knew  what  they  were  now. 

His  baby  raised  a chubby  fist  at  Deshin  as  if  agreeing  that  action  needed  to  be  tak- 
en. Deshin  bent  over  and  blew  bubbles  on  Paavo’s  tummy,  something  that  always 
made  Paavo  giggle. 

He  giggled  now,  a sound  so  infectious  that  Deshin  wondered  how  he  had  lived 
without  it  all  his  life.  He  would  do  everything  he  could  to  protect  this  baby,  every- 
thing he  could  to  take  care  of  his  family. 

“He  trusts  you,”  Gerda  said  with  a tiny  bit  of  amazement  in  her  voice. 

Most  people  never  trusted  Deshin.  Gerda  did,  but  Gerda  was  special. 

Deshin  blew  bubbles  on  Paavo’s  tummy  again,  and  Paavo  laughed. 

His  boy  did  trust  him. 

He  picked  up  his  newly  diapered  son  and  cradled  him  in  his  arms.  Then  he  kissed 
Gerda. 

The  three  of  them,  forever. 

That  was  what  he  needed,  and  that  was  what  he  ensured  today. 

The  detective  could  poke  around  his  business  all  she  wanted,  but  she  would  never 
know  the  one  thing  that  calmed  Deshin  down. 

Justice  had  been  done. 

His  family  was  safe. 

And  that  was  all  that  mattered.  O 


106 


Kristine  Kathryn  Rusch 


Ad  Astra  Per  Strahan 

Jonathan  Strahan  began  his  editing 
career  over  twenty  years  ago  in  the 
pages  of  Eidolon  magazine,  an  out- 
standing small  press  publication 
which,  according  to  the  esteemed  Science 
Fiction  Encyclopedia,  “perhaps  more 
than  any  of  the  other  [Aussie]  maga- 
zines . . . gave  Australian  SF  a voice.” 
Since  those  beginnings,  he’s  gone  on  to 
become  arguably  the  premier  antholo- 
gist currently  working  in  the  field,  carry- 
ing on  the  noble  banner  raised  earlier  by 
Damon  Knight  and  Terry  Carr,  among 
others.  Any  collection  of  original  works 
under  his  byline  can  be  assumed  to  con- 
sist of  top-notch  stories. 

Reach  for  Infinity  (Solaris,  trade  paper- 
back, $9.99,  340  pages,  ISBN  978-1- 
78108-203-4)  is  the  third  in  a loosely 
linked  set  that  began  with  Engineering 
Infinity  (2010)  and  continued  in  Edge  of 
Infinity  (2012).  As  one  might  guess,  this 
trio  has  its  sights  set  on  hardcore  SF,  ex- 
trapolation-rich storytelling.  Strahan  ex- 
plicates in  his  latest  introduction:  the  first 
anthology  concerned  far-off  interstellar 
futures;  the  second  volume  solarcentric 
futures;  and  this  third  collection  charts 
the  nearest-term  scenarios,  as  humanity 
leaves  Earth  for  the  first  time  in  larger 
fashion.  Working  backward  down  the 
chronology,  then,  in  an  intriguing  fashion. 

Greg  Egan  does  not  write  enough  sto- 
ries to  satisfy  me  or  his  many  other  fans, 
so  finding  a new  one  as  the  opening  sal- 
vo here  is  a treat.  “Break  My  Fall”  con- 
cerns a convoy  of  non-engine-bearing 
colonist  ships  headed  to  Mars,  employ- 
ing an  ingenious  system  of  spinning  as- 
teroid waystations  for  power.  A solar 
flare  and  a mechanical  failure  make  for 
a Hal  Clement-style  tale  that  eschews 
Egan’s  usual  metaphysics  in  a pared- 
down  yet  enjoyable  fashion.  Next  up. 


Aliette  de  Bodard  offers  “The  Dust 
Queen,”  which  also  displays  a colonized 
Mars.  Here,  an  expert  in  neurological 
“rewiring,”  Quynh  Ha,  faces  the  ethical 
challenge  of  satisfying  her  imperious 
client  without  depriving  the  world  of  that 
elderly  woman’s  talents. 

Ian  McDonald,  in  “The  Fifth  Dragon,” 
builds  us  a Moon  society  as  dense  and 
rich  as  anything  from  Heinlein  or  Kessel, 
and  then  follows  the  divergent  fates  of 
two  women  who  are  best  friends  despite 
major  differences.  I loved  the  touch  of  a 
special  lunar  “saint,”  Dona  Luna,  “goddess 
of  dust  and  radiation.”  Back  on  Earth,  in 
“Kheldyu,”  Karl  Schroeder  turns  carbon 
sequestration  into  a sprightly  action-filled 
industrial  sabotage  romp,  a la  Bruce  Ster- 
ling, as  our  hero  thwarts  a dastardly  plot 
hatching  in  Siberia. 

Pat  Cadigan’s  “Report  Concerning  the 
Presence  of  Seahorses  on  Mars”  is  rife 
with  juicy  neologisms  and  ways  of  think- 
ing that  truly  convey  the  cultural  drift 
that  her  residents  of  Phoenix  City,  aka 
Eeenixity,  have  come  to  experience.  And 
an  allied  kind  of  mental  and  physical 
adaptation  occurs  to  the  solar  explorers 
in  Karen  Lord’s  “Hiraeth:  A Tragedy  in 
Pour  Acts.”  Resonances  with  the  work  of 
Samuel  Delany  and  Cordwainer  Smith 
are  well  earned. 

Ellen  Klages  beautifully  channels  Ray 
Bradbury  in  the  wistful  yet  powerful 
“Amicae  Aeternum,”  where  two  young 
friends  find  humanity’s  outward  urge 
driving  them  apart.  Cast  in  the  form  of 
an  official  report  complete  with  bibliogra- 
phy, “Trademark  Bugs:  A Legal  History,” 
by  Adam  Roberts,  deals  with  “designer 
germs”  in  a way  that  would  have  made 
Pohl  & Kornbluth  proud.  Linda  Nagata’s 
“Attitude”  is  a stimulating  entry  in  the 
sub-genre  of  imaginary  future  sports. 
Nova-bright  novelist  Hannu  Rajaniemi 


107 


March  2015 


ports  over  his  ideational  fecundity  to  “In- 
visible Planets,”  a baedeker  of  exotic 
worlds  that  brings  the  work  of  Stanislaw 
Lem  to  mind,  as  well  as  that  of  the 
avowed  inspiration,  Italo  Calvino. 

An  exceedingly  elderly  woman  sur- 
rounds herself  with  adopted  “artificial 
people”  in  Kathleen  Ann  Goonan’s 
“Wilder  Still,  the  Stars,”  and  discovers 
new  and  important  ways  of  thinking  and 
being.  My  favorite  story,  Ken  MacLeod’s 
“‘The  Entire  Immense  Superstructure’: 
An  Installation”  charts  the  zany  progress 
of  a mad  artist  through  the  surreal  laby- 
rinth of  the  WikiThing.  Alastair  Reynolds 
brings  us  a Besterish  psychotic  robot  with 
“In  Babelsberg.”  And  to  conclude,  the 
amazing  Peter  Watts  takes  us  sundiving 
with  a young  engineered  girl  named,  ap- 
propriately enough,  Sunday  in  “Hotshot.” 

This  wide-ranging  collection  enter- 
tainingly illustrates  that  our  path  off 
this  planet  will  be  strewn  with  wonders 
and  weirdnesses  galore. 

The  Only  FB  That  Matters 
Isn’t  Facebook 

Fedogan  & Bremer  was  one  of  my  fa- 
vorite small  presses  a decade  or  so  ago. 
Their  books  were  gorgeous  artifacts,  but, 
more  importantly,  their  lively  contents, 
originals  and  reprints  alike,  represented 
the  superb  tastes  of  the  creative  forces  be- 
hind the  firm,  Philip  Rahman  and  Dennis 
Weiler.  Unfortunately,  F&B  experienced 
some  sad  circumstances — including  the 
untimely  death  of  Mr.  Rahman — that 
caused  them  to  go  on  hiatus.  But  now, 
happily,  F&B  are  back,  and  as  exciting 
and  vibrant  as  ever. 

One  of  their  new  offerings  is  an  origi- 
nal anthology  helmed  by  horror  savant 
S.T.  Joshi:  Searchers  After  Horror  (hard- 
cover, $30.00,  352  pages,  ISBN  978- 
1878252265).  There’s  not  a mediocre  sto- 
ry in  the  lot,  plenty  of  shivers  both  subtle 
and  socko.  Moreover,  a gorgeous  cover  by 
Richard  Corben  and  interior  illos  by 
Rodger  Gerberding  add  to  the  sepulchral 
luster. 

Melanie  Tern  gives  us  the  entropic 
frigid  decline  of  a female  hoarder  in 


“Iced  In.”  John  Shirley  fuses  cyberpunk 
with  Lovecraft  in  “At  Home  with  Aza- 
thoth.”  “The  Girl  Between  the  Slats”  by 
Michael  Aronovitz  keeps  on  pulling  the 
meta-narrative  rug  out  from  under  the 
reader.  While  searching  out  the  perfect 
filming  location  for  a cheap  horror  flick, 
the  protagonist  of  Richard  Gavin’s  “The 
Patter  of  Tiny  Feet”  encounters  his  sub- 
conscious anxieties  in  tangible  forms. 

Ramsey  Campbell  is  never  less  than 
masterful,  and  his  “At  Lorn  Hall”  deliv- 
ers creepy  atmospherics  in  Lord  Crow- 
cross’s  decaying  manor  house.  “Blind 
Fish”  by  Caitlin  Kiernan  manages  to  be 
strict  science  fiction  as  well  as  eldritch 
maritime  horror.  WH.  Pugmire  returns 
us  to  his  Sesqua  Valley  territory  in  “An 
Element  of  Nightmare,”  where  a seeker 
after  poetry  meets  an  erotic  end  instead. 

A retired  couple  at  odds  with  each  oth- 
er in  Gary  Fry’s  “The  Reeds”  discover 
larger  horrors  in  a cmious  patch  of  vege- 
tation. Steve  Rasnic  Tern  brings  his  pro- 
tagonist hack  to  his  unnatural  bucolic  Vir- 
ginia roots  in  “Crawldaddies.”  Jonathan 
Thomas  prohes  a strange  French  commu- 
nity in  “Three  Dreams  of  Ys,”  while  Lois 
Gresh  ventures  into  truly  oddball  Neal 
Barrett-style  otherness  with  “Willie  the 
Protector.” 

The  coup  of  this  collection  is  a never- 
before-published  piece  by  Hannes  Bok, 
“Miranda’s  Tree,”  which  is  like  a Night 
Gallery  episode  written  by  Shirley  Jack- 
son.  An  elderly  widower  reaches  a kind  of 
transcendence  in  “The  Beautiful  Fog  As- 
cending” by  Simon  Strantzas.  Nick  Ma- 
matas  ably  inhabits  HPL’s  stomping 
grounds  of  haunted  Massachusetts  in 
“Exit  Through  the  Gift  Shop.”  “Going  to 
Ground”  by  Darrell  Schweitzer  delivers 
justice  to  a murderer  atop  some  eerie 
ridges.  And  Ann  Schwader  deftly  explores 
the  legacy  of  some  haunted  photographs 
in  “Dark  Equinox.” 

Channeling  Thomas  Burnett  Swann, 
Brian  Stahleford  delivers  an  adventure 
amongst  the  dryads  and  fauns  of  classi- 
cal Greece  in  “Et  in  Arcadia  Ego.”  The 
dread  ecology  of  a polar  island  entraps  a 
military  mission  in  Jason  Brock’s  “The 

Paul  Di  Filippo 


108 


Shadow  of  Heaven.”  A man  and  a woman 
are  fascinated  with  skeletons  and  mum- 
mies to  no  good  end  in  Nancy  Kilpatrick’s 
“Flesh  and  Bones.”  The  Elder  Gods  man- 
ifest in  the  town  of  Sac  Prairie  in  John 
Haefele’s  “The  Sculptures  in  the  House.” 
And,  paralleling  Melanie  Tern’s  opening 
story,  Donald  Tyson’s  “Ice  Fishing”  offers 
a wintry  eruption  of  supernatural  death. 

Joshi’s  superior  selections  are  both  old 
school  yet  au  courant,  pointing  toward  a 
fine  future  for  this  immemorial  genre. 

Life  and  Death  After  the  Blink 

1 suspect  that  most  hardcore  readers 
and  bibliophiles  share  a trait  that  1 my- 
self certainly  exhibit.  1 will  often  start 
collecting  the  works  of  an  author  based 
on  word  of  mouth  or  good  reviews,  even 
though  1 know  full  well  that  1 won’t  get 
the  immediate  chance  to  read  them. 
They  accumulate,  pages  unturned,  to  my 
eternal  shame,  but  provide  some  solace 
in  their  mere  presence,  a token  of  my 
good  intentions  and  interest. 

Thus,  having  harkened  to  some  buzz 
about  Robert  Jackson  Bennett,  1 picked 
up  (or  was  sent  for  review)  his  first  four 
books:  Mr.  Shivers  (2010);  The  Company 
Man  (2011);  The  Troupe  (2012);  and 
American  Elsewhere  (2013).  As  of  this 
writing,  there  they  still  sit  on  my  shelves, 
unread. 

But  when  his  newest  arrived.  City  of 
Stairs  (Broadway  Books,  trade  paperback, 
$15.00, 464  pages,  ISBN  978-0804137171), 
1 felt  the  time  had  come  when  1 could  wait 
no  longer  to  sample  this  award-winning 
new  writer.  And  what  1 discovered  made 
me  glad  1 had  the  earlier  volumes  readily 
to  hand,  so  1 could  now  enjoy  them  at  my 
leisure.  They  were  a confirmation  of  my 
good  instincts. 

City  of  Stairs  is  remarkably  fresh  and 
fun  and  well  done,  reminiscent  of  the 
work  of  Paul  Park  in  The  Starbridge 
Chronicles  and  Daniel  Abraham  in  The 
Long  Price  Quartet.  Bennett’s  fifth  novel 
is  a shining  example  of  New  Weird  that 
proves  that  the  youthful  genre  has  legs 
beyond  any  immediate  faddishness, 
when  executed  with  ingenuity  and  skill. 


Asimov's 

First,  let’s  talk  about  venue  and  histo- 
ry, then  characters  and  plot. 

There’s  an  enormous,  rich,  well-conceived 
backstory  to  this  book,  which  emerges  in 
stages.  This  subcreation  truly  feels  like  a 
real  world,  tangible  and  complexly  inter- 
linked. Very  briefly:  one  polity  of  our  con- 
cern, the  place  where  all  the  action  oc- 
curs, is  dubbed,  simply,  the  Continent; 
the  other  relevant  nation  is  named  Say- 
pur.  For  a long  time,  the  Continent  ruled 
Saypur  and  used  its  people  as  slaves, 
thanks  to  the  powers  of  six  living  Divini- 
ties and  the  magical  artifacts  and  crea- 
tures they  provided.  Then,  thanks  to  one 
legendary  hero,  Saypur  managed  to  con- 
quer the  Continent  and  kill  all  the  gods. 
Doing  so  caused  the  Blink,  during  which 
much  of  the  supematurally  raised  infra- 
structure of  the  Continent  disappeared, 
devolved,  or  transformed.  Now  the  capi- 
tal of  the  Continent,  the  city  of  Bulikov,  is 
a poor  shambles  of  its  old  self,  ruled  with 
an  iron  hand  by  Saypuri  magistrates.  Yet 
there  are  hints  of  Divine  power  still  ex- 
tant, and  a terrorist  group  who  want  to 
restore  the  old  glories. 

Into  this  comes  our  heroine,  Shara 
Thivani,  and  her  assistant,  the  giant  and 
scary  ex-seaman  Sigrud.  Shara,  whose 
real  last  name  links  her  to  the  ancient 
conquering  family,  is  a secret  intelligence 
agent  for  Saypur,  tasked  with  investigat- 
ing the  murder  of  a Sa3q)uri  scholar.  What 
she  cannot  know  is  that  her  investigation 
will  bring  her  back  into  contact  with  a 
Continental  lover  from  her  youth,  as  well 
as  into  conflict  with  assorted  vast  conspir- 
acies and  secrets  that  have  the  potential 
to  undermine  all  existing  balances. 

Bennett  tells  a thrilling,  formidable 
story  that  exhibits  the  perfect  ratio  of 
naturalism  to  the  fantastic,  of  action  to 
philosophy,  of  characterization  to  setting, 
of  humor  to  tragedy.  His  dialogue  is  su- 
perb, and  the  revelations  about  Shara’s 
past,  Sigrud’s  past  and  the  lifelines  of  all 
the  other  characters  is  doled  out  in  artis- 
tic measure.  You  will  never  guess  all  the 
twists  and  turns  of  this  tale,  and  you  will 
feel  immense  and  cathartic  satisfaction 
at  its  conclusion. 


On  Books 


109 


March  2015 

The  New  Weird  at  its  best  allegorizes 
our  actual  planet,  and  there’s  surely 
some  of  that  parallelism  here,  with  the 
relationship  of  conquered  Bulikov  to  con- 
queror Saypur  tallying  with  any  number 
of  actual  extant  geopolitical  situations. 
But  Bennett  has  no  axes  to  grind,  and 
his  storytelling  mojo  is  given  full  rein, 
producing  a genuine  work  of  art. 

The  Girl,  the  Pewter-Colored  Watch, 
and  Everything 

I have  always  had  a fondness  for  por- 
tal fantasies,  and  the  worlds  they  lead 
to.  Narnia,  Oz,  Amber  . . . who  wouldn’t 
want  to  travel  to  such  places  and  have 
great  adventures,  even  if  a modicum  of 
danger  abounded?  Such  tales  speak  to 
our  innate  existential  dissatisfaction 
with  mundane  life,  however  much  we 
relish  hearth  and  family  and  friends.  I’m 
reminded  of  the  refrain  to  that  old  Steely 
Dan  song  which  asserts  that  the  grass  is 
always  greener  in  any  universe  next 
door.  And  if  the  cross-dimensional  travel- 
er discovers  that  he  or  she  has  an  ances- 
tral connection  to  the  strange  place,  is  a 
figure  of  some  repute  there — well,  what 
could  be  better? 

In  her  new  novel,  A Child  of  the  Hid- 
den Sea  (Tor,  hardcover,  $25.99,  332 
pages,  ISBN  978-0-7653-3449-7),  A.M. 
Dellamonica  taps  into  this  rich  gestalt  of 
feelings  and  frissons  and  gives  us  a re- 
warding, involving  example  of  the  cate- 
gory. Hitting  all  the  expected  thematic 
milestones  and  tropes,  yet  with  some  few 
surprises  along  the  route,  the  book  does 
not  quite  reach  masterpiece  heights,  but 
provides  plenty  of  rousing  adventures 
nonetheless. 

Our  protagonist  is  twenty-four-year-old 
Sophie  Hansa.  Adopted  when  very  young, 
she  now  has  tracked  down  her  hidden 
birth-mother.  Having  introduced  herself 
and  been  rebuffed,  she  next  interacts 
briefly  and  alarmingly  with  a woman. 
Gale,  who  appears  to  be  her  aunt  by 
blood.  But  Gale’s  crisis-provoked  use  of  an 
odd  pocketwatch  lands  Sophie  and  her 
aunt  in  an  alternate  world  known  as 
Stormwrack,  a planet  where  some  two 

1 10 


hundred  fifty  island  nations  exist  in  a 
complicated  arrangement  dubbed  the 
Cessation. 

It  turns  out  that  Sophie’s  aunt  and 
mother — and  a feisty  and  jealous  yoimger 
half-sister  named  Verena — are  all  more 
or  less  native  to  Stormwrack,  able  to  trav- 
el back  and  forth  at  will.  After  Sophie 
spends  a week  there,  she’s  sent  back  to 
Earth  with  a longing  and  determination 
to  revisit  Stormwrack.  And  this  time  she 
will  go  fully  prepared  to  make  her  mark, 
dragging  along  her  foster  brother  Bram. 
But  once  returned  to  her  native  land,  So- 
phie finds  herself  in  a deadly  web  of  mur- 
der, commercial  rivalries,  and  realpolitik. 
As  well  as  killer  chimeras. 

Dellamonica  has  a lot  of  fun  pitting 
Earthly  worldviews  and  attitudes  against 
Stormwrackian  ones.  The  cognitive  disso- 
nance exhibited  by  Sophie  is  testament 
to  her  ingenuity  and  depth  of  personality. 
Her  passions — diving,  natural  history — 
find  handy  outlets.  The  magical  systems 
of  Stormwrack  are  cleverly  designed  and 
sharply  limned.  The  interplay  amongst 
all  the  cast  is  charming,  including  some 
romantic  affiliations.  And  if  Stormwrack 
resembles  many  another  secondary  mi- 
lieu, and  if  Sophie’s  exploits  are  pretty 
much  something  Holger  Danske  or  John 
Carter  or  Harold  Shea  might  have  also 
encountered,  the  telling  of  her  tale  is  still 
authentic  and  sharp  and  enjoyable. 

Depredations  of  the  Silver  Ripper 

When  I reviewed  Paul  Cornell’s  Lon- 
don Falling,  I identified  it  as  sparky, 
prickly  and  well-wrought,  a possible  new 
franchise  in  the  mode  of  Hellblazer  and 
Hellboy:  gritty  occult  investigations,  to  be 
shorthandedly  and  somewhat  reduction- 
istically  precise.  In  good  franchise  fash- 
ion, the  sequel.  The  Severed  Streets  (Tor, 
hardcover,  $26.99,  416  pages,  ISBN  978- 
0765330284),  delivers  exactly  what  the 
first  did,  with  s few  new  developments  in 
character  and  milieu.  No  surprises,  in 
other  words,  but  plenty  of  quality  payoffs 
in  the  aforeseen  promised  mode. 

Thanks  to  their  previous  investigation 
(nicely  encapsulated  in  Chapter  1 in 


Paul  Di  Filippo 


reader-friendly  fashion),  a small  group  of 
London  cops  led  by  one  James  Quill  have 
been  granted  the  Sight,  a kind  of  ex- 
trasensory perception  of  the  supernatur- 
al (wittily  compared  by  Cornell  to  the 
augmented  reality  of  Google  Glass). 
Their  secret  unit  is  now  tasked  with 
solving  the  occult  crimes  of  London. 
And,  some  three  months  on  from  their 
previous  maiden  outing,  they  have  a 
doozy  of  an  assignment.  A killer  emulat- 
ing Jack  the  Ripper  is  slaughtering  im- 
portant men  in  impossible  situations, 
leaving  behind  a weird  ectoplasmic  sub- 
stance as  the  only  clue.  Quill  and  compa- 
ny are  soon  plumbing  the  depths  of  weird 
pubs,  looking  for  a scr3dng  mirror,  attend- 
ing uncanny  auctions,  and  even  ventur- 
ing down  to  Hell.  Oh,  and  did  I mention 
that  one  of  their  leads  is  an  author  named 
Neil  Gaiman,  who  reveals  that  he  too  pos- 
sesses the  Sight?  Quite  a cameo  role! 

Cornell  is  a dab  hand  at  conjuring  up 
eerie  and  shiversome  situations  that 


Asimov's 

consort  believably  with  our  naturalistic 
world.  His  portrait  of  haunted  London 
develops  new  angles  and  layers.  There’s 
plenty  of  action  and  Holmesian  deduc- 
tion to  keep  the  reader  interested  and  on 
the  edge  of  his  or  her  seat.  But  I do  note 
that  while  the  horrific  villain  in  the  first 
book,  the  witch  Mora  Losley,  was  in  the 
faces  of  our  heroes  every  minute,  the 
Ripper  here  is  rather  distant  and  ab- 
stract, not  much  of  a personality  (be- 
cause he’s  really  a puppet  for  another 
bad  guy,  it  eventuates),  and  the  mad  at- 
tacker with  the  razor  and  “silver  goo” 
does  not  directly  confront  our  cops  till 
past  the  midpoint  of  the  story.  It  makes 
for  a bit  less  of  a fraught  tale. 

Ultimately,  though,  the  interplay 
amongst  the  cleanly  delineated  quirky 
cast  offers  nearly  as  much  enjo3mient  and 
suspense  as  the  supernatural  MacGuffin, 
and  that  attraction  will  keep  readers 
happily  coming  back  for  more.  O 


Spring  starts  early  on  the  convention  circuit.  I’ll  be  at  Boskone  and  LunaCon.  Also  good  for  Asimovians:  CapriCon, 
ConDFW,  RadCon,  MystICon,  FogCon,  All-Con,  ConDor  and  MIdSouthCon.  Shake  those  winter  blues.  Plan  now 
for  social  weekends  with  your  favorite  SF  authors,  editors,  artists,  and  fellow  fans.  For  an  explanation  of  our 
con(vention)s,  a sample  of  SF  folksongs,  and  info  on  fanzines  and  clubs,  send  me  an  SASE  (self-addressed, 
stamped  #10  [business]  envelope)  at  10  Hill  #22-L,  Newark  NJ  07102.  The  hot  line  is  (973)  242-5999.  If  a machine 
answers  (with  a list  of  the  week’s  cons),  leave  a message  and  I'll  call  back  on  my  nickel.  When  writing  cons,  send  an 
SASE.  For  free  listings,  tell  me  of  your  con  five  months  out.  Look  for  me  at  cons  behind  the  Filthy  Pierre  badge,  playing 


a musical  keyboard.  —Erwin  S.  Strauss 


13-15— Boskone.  For  info,  write:  Box  809,  Framingham  MA  01701.  Or  phone:  (617)  625-2311  (10  a.m.to  10  p.m.,  not  collect).  (Web) 
www.boskone.org.  (E-mail)  info@boskone.org.  Con  will  be  held  in:  Boston  MA  (if  city  omitted,  same  as  in  address)  at  the  Westin 
Waterfront.  Guests  will  include:  Steven  Brust,  artists  Charles  Lang  and  Wendy  Snow-Lang,  musicians  Maya  and  Jeff  Bohnhoff. 


12- 15— CapriCon.  www.capricon.org.  Westin,  Wheeling  (Chicago)  IL.  Author  Matt  Forbeck,  gamer  Steve  Jackson,  musician  A.  J.  Adams. 

13- 15— ConDFW.  www.condfw.org.  Hilton  Lincoln  Centre,  Dallas  TX.  C.  Dean  Andersson,  Brad  Foster,  Paul  Abell,  J.  D.  Horn,  Rocky  Kelley. 
13-15— RadCon.  www.radcon.org.  Pasco  WA.  General  SF/fantasy/horror  con. 

1 3-1 5— Farpoint.  www.farpointcon.com.  Baltimore  North  Plaza,  Timonium  MD.  Tim  Russ,  Mark  Okrand.  Star  Trek  and  other  SF  media. 

13- 15— KatsuCon.www.katsucon.org.  Gaylord  Hotel,  National  Harbor  MD  (south  of  Washington  DC).Yaya  Han,  Matt  Mercer,  Josh  Grelle. 

14- 15— PicoCon.  www.icsf.org.uk.  Beit  Quad,  Imperial  College,  London  UK.  Cory  Doctorow,  others. 

20-22— VisionCon.  www.visioncon.net.  Radisson,  Branson  MO.  Alaina  Huffman,  Gerry  Kissell,  Justin  Achilli,  S.  Strait.  Anime,  gaming,  SF. 
20-22— ConCave.  www.concaveky.org.  Bowling  Green  KY.  SF  fantasy  and  horror  relaxacon. 

20-22— Furry  Fiesta,  www.furryfiesta.org.  InterContinental  Hotel,  Dallas  TX.  Dingbat,  J.  D.  Puppy,  Sanguine  Games.  Anthropomorphics. 
20-22— Redemption,  www.smof.com/redemption.  Brittania  Hotel,  Coventry  UK.  Miltos  Yerolemov.  Multimedia  convention. 

27-Mar.  1— MystiCon.  www.mysticon-va.com.  Holiday  Inn  Tanglewood,  Roanoke  VA.  A.  D.  Foster,  Sean  Maher,  Scott  Rorie,  C.  Stiles. 
27-Mar.  1— AnachroCon.  www.anachrocon.com.  Marriott  Century  Center,  Atlanta  GA.  Lee  Martindale.  Steampunk,  classic  SF  literature. 
27-Mar.  1— ConNooga.  www.connooga.com.  Chattanooga  TN.  SF,  horror,  fantasy,  multigenre. 

27-Mar.  1— Ring  of  Fire  Con.  www.rofcon.com.  Holiday  Inn  Virginia  Beach  Norfolk,  Virginia  Beach  VA.  Jon  St.  John.  Anime,  cosplay. 
27-Mar.  1— KamiCon.  www.kamicon.net.  Birmingham  AL.  Anime. 

5- 8— VancouFur.  www.vancoufur.ca.  Vancouver  BC.  Theme:  “Gangsters  and  Gumshoes."  Anthropomorphics/furries. 

6- 8— FogCon,  Box  3764,  Hayward  CA  94540.  www.fogcon.org.  Walnut  Creek  (San  Francisco)  CA.  K.  S.  Robinson.  Literary  SF  & fantasy. 
6-8— MarsCon,  Box  21213,  Eagan  MN  55121.www.marscon.org.  Bloomington  (Minneapolis)  MN.  Theme:  “Heroes  & Wizards.”  Relaxacon. 

12- 15— All-Con,  Box  177194,  lrvingTX75019.www.all-con.net.  Addison  (Dallas)  TX.  General  SF/fantasy/horror  convention. 

13- 15— ConDor,  Box  15771,  San  Diego  CA  92175.  www.condorcon.org.  San  Diego  CA.  General  SF/fantasy/horror  convention. 

13-15— OperaCon.www.tinyurl.com/operacon.  Milwaukee  Wl.  Premiere  of  an  opera  by  old-time  As/mov’s  author  Somtow  Sucharitkul. 

18- 22— Int’l.  Conference  on  the  Fantastic  in  the  Arts,  www.iafa.org.  Airport  Marriott,  Orlando  FL.  Slonczewski.  Academic  conference. 
20-22— LunaCon,  Box  451 , Suffern  NY  1 0901 . www.lunacon.org.  Rye  Brook  (near  New  York  City)  NY.  General  SF/fantasy/horror  con. 
20-22— MidSouthCon,  Box  1 7724,  Memphis  TN  381 87.  www.midsouthcon.org.  Memphis  TN.  Cory  Doctorow.  General  SF/fantasy/horror  con. 

20- 22— CoastCon,  Box  1423,  Biloxi  MS  38533.  www.coastcon.org.  Gulf  Coast  Coliseum  and  Convention  Center,  Biloxi  MS. 

21—  ImagiCon.  www.imagicon.nl.  Reehorst,  Netherlands.  SF,  comics,  horror,  fantasy. 

27- 29— ConBust.  http://sophia.smith.edu/conbust.  Smith  College,  Northampton  MA.  Focus  on  female  members  of  the  participating  community. 

28- 29— Conference  on  Middle  Earth,  www.3rdcome.org.  Western  Mass.  The  Lord  of  the  Rings,  and  other  works  of  J.  R.  R.  Tolkien. 
27-29— Corflu.  corflu3@gmail.com.  Newcastle  upon  Tyne  UK.  Fanzines. 

19- 23— Sasquan,  PMB208, 15127  Main  St.  E.,  Suite  104,  Sumner  WA  98390.www.sasquan.org.  Spokane  WA.  Gerrold.  WorldCon.  $1 90. 
17-21— MidAmeriCon  ll.www.midamericon2.org.  Convention  Center  and  Bartle  Hall,  Kansas  City  MO.  Kinuko  Y.  Craft.  WorldCon.  $150. 


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